


Lost Lullabies

by Pigzxo



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Claustrophobia, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, child stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-04 08:18:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 50,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10272257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigzxo/pseuds/Pigzxo
Summary: Mickey Milkovich, former child star turned action movie star, runs into his old co-star, Ian Gallagher, out on the street in the middle of a winter night. When Mickey takes him in, he doesn't realize that Ian has the power to completely turn his new life upside down.





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey walked out of the store and looked both ways quick, just to make sure he hadn’t been recognized. He tapped a cigarette onto his palm and stuck it between his teeth. A quick light, three blocks, and he’d be back home nice and safe. For once, no paparazzi on his tail, no crazy fans ambushing him, and no one on his back not to smoke. He took a deep drag and let it smoke out into the cold night.

            Maybe it helped that it was a little after two in the morning on a week night and he’d worn his hood up to hide his face. Had scared the hell out of the cashier. What a rush. Mickey couldn’t remember the last time someone had honestly been scared to see him – he’d left that life behind a long time ago, a life where just his last name was a reason to arrest him. If he told anyone about it now, they’d probably never believe him.

            He started down the street slow, not wanting to rush his walk back to the apartment. It was quiet and cold and he hadn’t exactly worn a jacket – just a big black hoodie. He inhaled more smoke than was reasonably safe and coughed it out, smiled at the ridiculousness of it. Once he had smoked more than a pack a day. Once he’d smoked stuff a lot worse than nicotine. And now he couldn’t finish a cigarette without coughing.

            It was a nostalgic night. A few hours ago he’d gotten a call – Disney was doing a reboot of his old show and did he want to be on it? No. But he did spend the next three hours watching reruns of it on DVD, laughing out loud at the bad jokes, the terrible outfits, and how _young_ he’d been. True, the show had ended just under ten years ago, when he had shifted from cute to awkward pubescent teenager. He could see acne in a couple of shots – through the make-up, of course.

            Mickey tripped over an outstretched boot. “Shit, sorry.” He glanced over at the man leaned up against the wall. Slumped, really. Mickey’s blood chilled and he kicked the guy’s leg lightly. “Hey, man. You okay?”

            No movement.

            Mickey considered stuffing a couple twenties into the guy’s pocket and leaving him out there. But if he was dead, Mickey would have contaminated a crime scene. And if he wasn’t dead, he would be by morning. Chicago winters weren’t exactly outside weather, especially not for homeless people dressed barely better than Mickey was at the moment.

            Nudging the guy again, Mickey pulled his phone out of his pocket and Googled where the nearest homeless shelter was. It’d be a couple of blocks, and quite a few of those blocks were bound to be heavily populated so he’d certainly be recognized, but he knew it’d eat at him if he just left the guy there. He once again yearned for his old life, when a homeless guy on the street was decidedly _not his problem_ and he was just as likely to freeze inside his house as this guy was outside.

            Unfortunately, or fortunately, that wasn’t the world anymore.

            Mickey cursed under his breath when the guy still refused to move and knelt over him. He pressed his fingers under the collar of the guy’s coat and found the crook of his neck. Thank fucking god there was a pulse. Mickey took hold of the guy’s neck and shook. “Hey. Hey, man, get up. You can’t stay out here. Hey! You hear me?”

            The man opened one eye lazily and looked Mickey up and down. Then his eyes closed, he leaned back and mumbled something along the lines of, “You wanna take me home, stud?”

            Of course Mickey had picked a gay guy on the street to save. It couldn’t have just been a nice, old homeless man missing a few teeth who he could walk to the nearest shelter and who would forget him in a few days. It had to be a relatively attractive young man with all his teeth, a dashing – if drunk – smile, and who was a little handsy. In fact, the guy was already reaching for Mickey’s belt buckle.

            “Suck you off for twenty,” the man muttered.

            “No, dude!” Mickey batted him off. He scrambled to his feet and ran a hand through his hair. Seven blocks, in the cold, through a populated area, with a drunk, touchy guy hanging off of him. That wasn’t going to be an option. If his publicist would kill him for smoking half a cigarette, she’d definitely kill him for pictures of him getting felt up on a city block.

            But Mickey couldn’t leave the guy there. For fuck’s sake, when had he grown a conscious? “Hey, man,” Mickey said. He got a ‘mmm’ sound in response. “Can you stand?”

            “Don’t need to stand to blow you.”

            “Right. Okay. I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

            “No!” The man reached up as if going for Mickey’s arm, for his phone, but he couldn’t sit up well enough to get anywhere near Mickey. But his eyes suddenly looked brighter, more alert, greener in the dimmed streetlights. “No, please, I’m fine. Don’t call the fucking cops.”

            “Paramedics aren’t cops.” Mickey started to dial.

            “Please.”

            “Look, I know you’ve probably got drugs on you or something, and sure, they’ll throw them out, but they’re also gonna bring you somewhere warm for the night. So maybe stop fighting me?” Mickey looked down at the guy with his best sympathetic look – he knew from his acting coach that it definitely wasn’t that good – and put the phone up to his ear. The cool plastic sent chills through his whole body. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

            “My sister’s gonna kill me.”

            “I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Mickey tried to shake the guy’s hand off his leg.

            “No, no, Fiona told me not to go out. She’ll be pissed.”

            “She’ll be happy you’re safe.”

            “No!” The man leaned forward so his forehead hit Mickey’s thigh, hard. Then he proceeded to throw up all over Mickey’s shoes.

            “Fuck!”

            The man put more weight on Mickey and Mickey had to readjust so that the guy didn’t fall and bang his head on the concrete. His hand came down on the knit hat the guy was wearing and pulled it off a little to reveal bright red hair. Bright red, very greasy, hair. Mickey stroked his fingers through it, felt the man hum against his leg.

            Then the 911 line operator picked up. “911, what’s your emergency?”

            Something clicked in Mickey’s mind. Red hair. Green eyes. Gay. A sister named Fiona.

            “Sorry, false alarm.” Mickey hung up. He crouched down, careful not to let the man fall to the side. When he could take his face in his hands, he forced the man to look up at him. His pupils were so big that his eyes could have been black. His cheeks were shallow, skin drained of colour, and he was thinner than Mickey remembered. If he was remembering right at all and still not tripping down memory lane. “Ian?” Mickey asked.

            “Hey, you know my name.” Ian smiled. “Did I tell you that?”

            “No.” Mickey sat frozen for a moment and then took action. He tucked his arm under Ian’s and hauled the taller man to his feet. He stumbled and fell heavily onto Mickey, but two guys drunkenly stumbling back to Mickey’s apartment wouldn’t necessarily be a sight. He just had to go through the back to avoid any paparazzi that might be at his front door and everything would be all right. Just all right.

            He started down the street, struggling under Ian’s weight. It wasn’t like the man had any meat on his bones, but he was tall and still managed to have sinewy muscle despite his emaciated state. How Fiona had ever let him end up like this, Mickey didn’t really know. But there was a lot about the Gallaghers that he no longer knew or cared to know. Ever since he’d gotten out of the Southside and the show had been cancelled, he hadn’t heard a word from any of them.

            Mickey started down the alley between his building and the one next to it. Ian reached out to scrape his hand along the bricks. After a minute or so, Mickey stopped him, noticing the blood dripping between his fingers. He worried that he needed to say something, to make Ian understand, but he didn’t know what there was to say. His heart trapped in his throat, it was all he could do just to swallow it.

            Maybe he’d known. It was no secret that after the show he kept in the business and Ian... Ian spent all his money and disappeared from the public eye. Not that Mickey hadn’t wished to do that same. He would have done anything to have been able to do the same. But at fifteen, recently emancipated, and fighting for the custody of his little sister, he couldn’t exactly give up on his only source of income or blow it all on drugs or decide his new idea of fame was to be a coked-up party kid.

            Not that he blamed Ian. He’d been to all the counsellors his agent had recommended, knew the stats on child stars. He was the lucky one. For once in his fucking life, he had gotten lucky.

            Mickey deposited Ian beside the door to his building and then dug out his keys.

            “I can undo that,” Ian slurred.

            “Not going for my belt buckle.” Mickey unlocked the door and half-shoved, half-carried Ian inside. He pressed the button for the elevator and kept Ian upright for the wait, then leaned him up against a wall inside.

            “Long time since I’ve done it in an elevator.”

            “We’re not having sex,” Mickey said.

            Ian smiled, showed perfect teeth from the braces the show had paid for. Mickey was only mildly surprised he hadn’t managed to rot a few out. Nine years.

            Ian reached for Mickey, grabbed onto his arm, and pulled himself closer. “Come on,” he said. His breath was hot in Mickey’s ear, ticklish even, but Mickey could smell acid vomit and alcohol on him. “Don’t play hard to get.” He started to land kisses on Mickey’s neck.

            Mickey pushed him off, but kept hold of his shirt so he wouldn’t fall over. He fixed him with his best no-nonsense glare – that look he knew he had down – and said slowly, “We’re not going to have sex. I’m gonna get you cleaned up and put you on the couch with a bucket by your head so you don’t fucking die tonight. Got it?”

            Ian hummed and tried to press forward to give Mickey more kisses. “Whatever you say, daddy.”

            “Okay.” Mickey held his arm out straighter and tried not to look at Ian. Instead, he watched the numbers on the elevator go up and up and up.

            “Rich much?” Ian whispered.

            “Pretty fucking rich.”

            “I like my daddys—”

            “Don’t fucking call me that again.” Mickey shot a glare Ian’s way and was tempted to push him back for good, but he knew he’d fall if he did. Mickey wasn’t 100% sure what a panic attack felt like – he’d Googled the symptoms once for an audition – but he thought he might be having one right then and there.

            The elevator dinged onto the twenty-second floor. Mickey breathed a sigh of relief and dragged Ian down the hall to his door. He fumbled the keys when Ian got a hand on his ass and cursed under his breath. Door open, he stepped inside and turned around. Ian had already closed the door behind him and was giving him a devastating look – hooded eyes, bottom lip bitten, in the middle of shrugging off his sweater. It might have been a little harder to resist if he wasn’t relying on the door to keep him up. Also if within three second he hadn’t doubled over and thrown up on Mickey’s floor.

            Mickey cursed. He kicked off his puke-soaked shoes and pulled Ian around the mess. Somehow he got them into the bathroom. He left the door open as he turned on the shower, turned the water all the way to hot thinking maybe it would burn some sense into Ian. Cold water was better for sobering people up, but he’d noticed that Ian’s fingers were blue and his cheeks and nose were bright red.

            “Get in,” Mickey said.

            “Whatever you want.” Ian started to strip and Mickey looked away. Of course, once his clothes hit the floor, he walked right up to Mickey’s side and pressed against him. He started to suck on Mickey’s earlobe.

            Mickey sent up a prayer for strength and patience and anything else he might need in order to not murder his childhood friend that night. With a sigh, he caught hold of Ian’s chin and said, “Get in the shower.”

            Ian stepped back, pouting slightly, and stepped into the steam. Mickey prodded him to sit down in the tub, since he was pretty sure he wouldn’t last much longer on his feet, and then adjusted the showerhead so it hit Ian directly. Then he sat down on the edge of the tub and ran his fingers through Ian’s hair.

            “You’re not getting in?” Ian asked. He tried to look up at Mickey, but got water in his eyes.

            “No.” Mickey hesitated a moment and then grabbed a shampoo bottle from the side of the tub. He squeezed some into his hands, rubbed them together, and then started to work the shampoo through Ian’s hair.

            “Got a washing kink or something?”

            “I don’t think that’s a kink.”

            “If you can think of it, it’s a kink.”

            Mickey didn’t want to ponder that thought anymore than was absolutely necessary, so he rinsed off his fingers and moved on to the conditioner. He absolutely refused to soap Ian up – even if he desperately needed it – but he could at least get his hair in good condition.

            “You still live with Fiona?” Mickey said.

            Ian shrugged. “On and off.”

            “Right now?”

            “Off.”

            Mickey rinsed his fingers off and stared at the back of Ian’s head. “You remember me?”

            Ian snorted. “I’m not _that_ fucked up. We just met. Out on the street.”

            “No, I mean...” Mickey shook his head. If Ian didn’t recognize him, maybe that was better. Maybe he’d just disappear in the morning and Mickey would never have to worry about him ever again. Maybe Ian Gallagher would once again disappear from his life. “You feelin’ any warmer?”

            “Yeah.”

            “You want coffee? I got decaf.”

            “You always woo your fucks beforehand?”

            “I told you. You’re sleeping on the couch.”

            “If that’s what you’re into.”

            Mickey didn’t bother arguing. He could have. He could have argued all night long and normally he would have. But it was getting close to three in the morning, he was half-soaked from shower spray, and he had a naked, drunk man in his tub. While it didn’t come close to his worst night ever, it might have been his worst night since he got out of his father’s house. His worst night since he’d gotten on his feet. Hell, his worst night since the last time he’d seen Ian.

            He let Ian sit under the shower for a little while longer before turning the water off and offering him a towel. Ian seemed a little steadier on his feet, but Mickey still didn’t risk leaving him alone until he got him to sit down on the couch. He came back with a pair of pajamas he’d never worn – they were Christmas themed, a gift from Mandy. She’d like that Ian had them. And Ian got dressed, looked up at Mickey as if expecting him to say something.

            “What?” Mickey said.

            Ian shrugged. “It’s weird not to get taken advantage of in some strange guy’s house.”

            Mickey smirked. “Go to sleep.”

            “You’re not into that, are you?”

            “No.”

            “All right.” Ian held up his hands in a weak mock surrender and then lay down on his side. After a few seconds, he closed his eyes but his breath didn’t steady.

            Mickey wanted to stay and watch until it did, until he knew for sure Ian was out for the night, but he thought it might be creepy if Ian decided to open his eyes. So instead he walked away and got down on his hands and knees to clean up the mess on his floor. After, he jumped in the shower himself, let the hot water burn into his skin. He almost fell asleep in there, but managed to drag himself into the bedroom and under the covers. He’d almost forgotten about Ian by the time he fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Ian had no idea where he was when he woke up, not that that was weird or anything. He sat up, head pounding, and rubbed his eyes. Tried to remember whether or not he’d gone home with someone last night. _Who_ he’d gone home with last night. What he’d been on last night.

            The last question was the easiest. He remembered the booze and the blow and a little blue pill that he’d forgotten to ask the name of. After that, he wasn’t sure. Maybe more booze. Maybe he’d hooked up with someone in the club or gotten dragged to someone’s house on his walk home.

            But there was a couch underneath him, not a bed. And he was wearing clothes. Pajamas, to be exact. Blue ones with snowflakes and little skating penguins. Okay. So a guy with some kind of weird fetish that might have made him a potential pedophile. Weird, but Ian would be gone before the guy woke up. Hopefully.

            He stumbled to his feet and looked around the apartment. It had a nice view of downtown, if the view of downtown could be called nice. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on the snow-strewn streets, the smoggy air, and the busy roads. The sun was barely over the horizon and threw pink-purple shadows into the room. It wasn’t small, but the living room and kitchen were beside each other. The counters had marble tops and everything was sleek black or silver. However, the couch was blue and kind of threadbare, much older than everything else in the place.

            Ian had gotten lucky. Whoever the hell he’d gone home with, they were stinking rich. And, quite honestly, if they’d made him dress like a little kid and do whatever it was he had done last night, they deserved to be ripped off.

            Ian started to look for a wallet or any valuable small enough to stuff in his pockets. Not that he had pockets or knew where the clothes were that he went out in last night. Shit. Small problem. At least if he could find some money he could get out of there looking like he did, but any other valuables would be out of the question. It wasn’t like he could just casually walk through the streets in Christmas pjs with a Faberge egg tucked under his armpit. Also, who the fuck had a Faberge egg?

            Ian started to hate his drunk self for hooking up with this asshole. The walls were baby blue, but only where they weren’t covered with framed movie posters. Movie posters that looked like they’d been signed by the cast – or scribbled on by a toddler. Ian almost laughed when he saw that most of them had Mickey Milkovich’s name on them. He wondered if maybe he’d gone home with an obsessive fan who maybe somehow recognized him and thought... close enough.

            But all that was beside the point. The point was cash. Where did rich people keep cash? He lifted up the couch cushions, opened all the drawers he could find, and checked every place someone could feasibly leave their wallet, but apparently rich people didn’t just leave their money lying around. Ian stared at the closed bedroom door. Could he sneak around the guy and get the money? Maybe. Did he want to risk it?

            Rich people tended to be litigious, so maybe not.

            The least the guy could offer him though was some breakfast, so Ian headed into the kitchen and started to open cupboards. Soon he found the liquor cabinet and opened up a bottle, to take the edge off. He’d eat something for real too – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full meal, maybe three days ago – but he’d take a few swigs of vodka first. It also served to take the sharp taste of vomit out of his mouth, so win-win.

            He turned to face the windows and the picturesque view. Maybe leaving was the wrong move. Maybe he could convince the guy to keep him around, pay for his shit, and let him live on his couch. Or in his bed. Ian really didn’t mind who he was blowing if they were going to keep him in the high life. He tilted the bottle back.

            “Hey, what the fuck?”

            Ian brought down the bottle and swallowed. For a second, he was sure he’d seen the man wrong. A trick of the light or his hungover brain or the hallucinogens he’d taken hadn’t worn off yet. But after he blinked, the man still stood there. Black hair, blue eyes, same angry face, same Southside charm, with the addition of the kind of care only actors put into their looks at six in the morning. Shirtless, too, which Ian could appreciate. Not as old as Ian thought he was going to be, definitely a plus.

            But none of that was what had shocked Ian into thinking that maybe morning vodka hadn’t been a great idea. What had shocked him was that he recognized the man standing before him in plaid pajama pants. Mickey Milkovich. Sure, it’d been nine years and he’d aged – well – but it was hard not to recognize him when his face was fucking everywhere. On billboards, on movie posters, on TV, on fucking bus benches. Everywhere. Ian probably could have recognized him blindfolded.

            Mickey walked across the room and took the bottle from Ian’s hands. “You tryin’ to break a record or somethin’? How long you been on a bender?”

            Ian smiled, then leaned forward and kissed Mickey. “Morning to you, too.”

            Mickey stared at him for a moment, then turned to put the bottle away. “Okay. Look, I get that you’re still probably drunk off your ass, but I made this perfectly clear three hours ago. I’m not into you and I’m not gay.”

            Ian frowned. A very Mickey thing to say, and it wasn’t like he was out to the world or anything – he had a girlfriend, for crying out loud – but if he’d gotten to the point where he’d actually allow himself to hook-up with guys, Ian had thought he’d maybe not be homophobic to their faces. Apparently, he’d been wrong.

            “Sure,” Ian said. He watched Mickey move around the kitchen. Maybe he’d been drunk too. Maybe he also didn’t remember what had happened last night. Ian hoisted himself up on the counter. He decided to test the waters. “Thanks for last night.”

            “Yeah.” Mickey turned back to him, frowned, but didn’t ask him to get off the counter.

            “It was... fun.”

            “Fun? Puking on my shoes is fucking fun to you?”

            Ian winced. All right. It’d been a while since he’d puked on a guy’s shoes and maybe he could see why a movie star like Mickey would be pissed off about that. Especially if he’d wanted to get off first. “Sorry,” Ian said. He wished Mickey would move a little closer so he could offer him another kiss or get a hand on his dick or do something. “I could make it up to you.”

            “How?”

            “Come here.”

            Mickey took a step back and rubbed his hand down his face. “Look—”

            “You brought me home.” Ian slipped off the counter and walked up to Mickey. It wasn’t hard to corner him in the kitchen and very soon there was no further back for Mickey to move. Ian caressed his cheek, let his hand fall down Mickey’s neck, but made sure to keep his eyes on Mickey’s. “I know what you wanted. Maybe you got it, maybe you didn’t, I don’t really remember.” He touched their noses together and looked down at Mickey’s lips. He wanted to lick them, kiss them, enter them. God, all his childhood fantasies were coming right back to him. “But if you want me, and you want me to remember, all you gotta do is ask.”

            He dropped his lips to Mickey’s and was immediately shoved backwards.

            “Fuck, Ian.” Mickey shook his head. “Are you still drunk or are you just fucking like this? Because I don’t think I can deal if it’s the latter.”

            “Deal?”

            Mickey shrugged. “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

            “Okay.” Ian held up his hands. “No touching. I’ve worked with that rule before.”

            “It’s not a fucking rule, Ian.” Mickey sounded like he might cry or breakdown or punch him in the face. The three really went hand-in-hand with him, or at least they used to. Ian wasn’t sure what he could and couldn’t assume about Mickey anymore. Mickey sighed. “Could you please just... could you sit down and I’ll make breakfast?”

            “Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Ian walked back over to the couch and flopped down. He watched as Mickey moved around the kitchen, pulling out bowls and pots and pans like he actually knew what to do with them. Ian remembered a Mickey who had burned chicken nuggets. “Hey,” he said.

            “Yeah?”

            “You recognize me?”

            Mickey snorted. “You recognize me?”

            “’Course.”

            “You didn’t last night.”

            Ian smiled. “I’m not that good with faces. Especially not pissed.”

            “But you recognize me now?” Mickey said.

            “Yeah.”

            “Then why all the fucking passes, man?” Mickey gave him a genuine look of confusion. “If I wasn’t perfectly clear like nine years ago, what do you think’s different now?”

            “You’re finally out of the closet?”

            “Ian—”

            “Not gay. Got it.” Ian rolled his eyes. He played with a loose thread on the couch. “So, if you’re not gay, and the pajamas aren’t some weird kink, than what the fuck happened last night?”

            Mickey shrugged. “Ran into you on the street, you were fucked up, I took you home.”

            “You do that a lot?”

            “No.” Mickey flicked a few dials on the stove and then turned to look at Ian. “I was gonna call a fucking ambulance or take you to a shelter, but considering you were all over me and begging me not to get the cops involved—”

            “Thank for that.”

            “Did you have drugs on you?”

            “Probably did them all.”

            “Then why no cops?”

            Ian shrugged. “You used to be Southside. You know.”

            Mickey shook his head and ran a hand down his face. “Ian,” he said. “Ian.” His voice broke on the word and the pan on the stove started to make a sound like something was burning. Neither man moved.

            “What?” Ian said.

            “Fuck.” Mickey went back to the stove and moved around whatever he was cooking with a spatula. He grabbed some spices from the cabinet above his head, shook them over the pan, and put them back. He lowered the heat. “Is this really your life now?”

            “Getting fucked and hooking up with random guys?” Ian said. “Yeah.”

            “So the drinking, the drugs, that was just... you blew all your money on it and then you just kept doing it despite the fact that you were dirt poor and no one gave a fuck anymore?”

            “Yeah.” Ian felt his heart drop in his chest, but what right did Mickey Milkovich have to judge him? Mickey’d had his first beer at six, his first line of coke at nine. He’d been so drunk at some of their line runs that he couldn’t remember not to swear on camera. If it wasn’t for the show sending him to rehab at _twelve_ then he would be worse off than Ian. “What? Does that worry you all of a sudden? Do you care about me now? Because when it was in the tabloids, you didn’t seem to give a fuck.”

            “I had my own life. My own problems. I couldn’t fucking take care of you too.”

            “Right. Mandy was more important.”

            “Mandy is more important.”

            “Then where is she?”

            “She’s good.” Mickey took the pan off the stove and shovelled eggs onto two plates. “Got her own place now in New York. She’s pretty big on Broadway, actually. And she’s finally got a boyfriend who doesn’t beat the shit out her so... can’t complain.” Mickey sat down beside Ian and put a plate in front of him. “Eat.”

            Ian shoved the eggs around with his fork. “So you both got out?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Without me.”

            Mickey was silent for a long moment. “I know we had that stupid pact but I honestly thought you’d be okay without me. You never seemed to need me before the show ended. Why would you have needed me after?”

            “Never needed you? What kind of bullshit—”

            “You know what I mean. You never needed me for anything other than to have someone to make passes on.” Mickey stabbed his eggs and stuffed a whole bunch in his mouth. While he chewed, Ian stayed silent, watched his jaw work. “I thought after the whole kiss debacle, it’d be better to leave you to your own devices. I didn’t know your own devices were going to be completely self-destructive.”

            “Sorry to disappoint.”

            Mickey sighed. “Do you want help now? I can get you into rehab or—”

            “Gallaghers don’t do therapy.”

            “Maybe they should.”

            Ian shoved Mickey lightly and took his first bite of eggs. It actually tasted pretty good, much better than anything else Mickey had ever cooked for him, not that that was a long list. After a few more bites, he said, “You really want to do me a favour?”

            “Anything.”

            “Let me crash here for a few nights.”

            Mickey hesitated.

            “I swear to god I won’t touch you. I’ll sleep on the couch and I’ll keep out of your way and I can cook and clean and do everything else you’ve probably got people to do for you, but I can be helpful.” Ian pursed his lips and gave Mickey his best puppy dog look. “Please. Just a few nights.”

            Mickey chewed for a moment. Then, “Okay.”

            Ian smiled and started to plan how to milk it for a lot longer than a few nights.


	3. Chapter 3

“So you find fucked up friend and you ask him to stay, yes?” Svetlana said.

            She sipped on her coffee and did a fantastic job of keeping her eyes on Mickey. Mickey had never managed to ignore the paparazzi like she did. He needed to watch them out of the corner of his eye, to know where they were, to keep them in sight in case anything happened. Fine. He was jumpy. He knew that, but he thought maybe she’d be jumpy too. If it weren’t for the fact that one of her clients was a casting director, she’d still be a whore.

            “And you is worried?” she prompted.

            Mickey nodded. He took too big of a sip of his coffee, but swallowed the burning liquid like a pro. “He wasn’t like this as a kid. And, yeah, I know people fucking change but... part of me had hoped all the rumours weren’t true. That he’d disappeared because he got clean, not because he’d ended up in a gutter somewhere.”

            “But no gutter. He is alive, no?”

            “Alive, just...” Mickey shook his head. “I don’t know. Can we not talk about this right now? I don’t want them to know.”

            “You brought it up.” She sipped her coffee and forced a smile. “How much longer?”

            Mickey checked his phone – 9:13. Their “impromptu” coffee run had been planned for nine to nine-thirty and they couldn’t look like they wanted to leave each other, even if only ten minutes together had been torturous. True, those ten minutes had been spent in line, but if anything that had made it better. It meant the paparazzi was further away, they didn’t have to whisper their conversations, and the people around them were too scared to get up in their space. Well, with the exception of one girl with a selfie stick.

            “Seventeen minutes.” Mickey tucked his phone away and took Svetlana’s hand. He kissed her knuckles, forced a smile. “How are you not freezing?”

            She shrugged. “I run hot.” She rubbed her hands on his cheeks to warm them. Even though she wore a fur coat and not much else in the way of outerwear, she was much warmer than Mickey who was bundled in a coat, a sweater, heavy-duty gloves, and a knit hat. A knit hat that may or may not have been Ian’s. He couldn’t remember what colour his own hat was or what colour Ian’s hat was. If he was wearing Ian’s hat, was there any way that the paparazzi would be able to tell? Would wonder where he’d gotten the hat, whose it was, what he was doing with it when he had supposedly spent the night at Svet’s?

            Mickey forced himself to calm down as they kept walking. They kept the conversation to small talk – the weather, likes and dislikes, schedules, stage-whispered compliments – and tried to look like they weren’t checking the time every five minutes.

            It wasn’t that Mickey didn’t like Svetlana; it was more that she didn’t like him. She thought he was a liar and cheat and, well, he couldn’t really correct her. They’d worked together on a movie a little over a year ago and, for publicity, they’d been asked to make a show of going out together. Even further than that, they’d been asked not to put down any rumours they were dating. And once the world thought it was happening, both their agents thought that they might as well go along with it.

            “You should kick him out.”

            “Hmm?”

            “Orange boy.” Svetlana sucked on her finger and then wiped crumbs from Mickey’s lower lip. “He seems like bad news.”

            Mickey said nothing, checked his phone again. 9:28. Svetlana was right, of course. It was rare that she wasn’t right, that he didn’t immediately take her advice on anything and everything. She might be a pain in his ass, but she had become his new Mandy over the last year, and he took her seriously when she said he had made a bad choice. He’d ducked out of projects because of it. He’d fired assistants. He’d changed agents. But he couldn’t just put Ian back on the street.

            “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But street is good for boy. Builds character.”

            “Not everyone can survive polar temperatures.” Mickey stopped in front of his car and looked up at her. He wished she’d stop wearing ridiculous heels so she wouldn’t absolutely tower over him in every picture, but he’d yet to convince either of their agents that it was a problem for his image. So the heels stayed. He reached up to kiss her, just a quick peck, and then she wiped the lipstick off his skin. She felt sticky and lukewarm, like snot. “Call me later?” he said.

            “Five?”

            “Later. I’m gonna try and swing by his sister’s house, see if I can’t sort things out.”

            “Stay out of it.”

            “I’m already in it.” Mickey slipped into the backseat of the car before she could say another word. The driver pulled into traffic as Mickey stared at his phone. He considered calling Ian – he didn’t have his cell number, but Ian might answer the home phone – but decided against it. If Ian was going to be crashing on his couch for a few days, he needed to be able to trust him. Even if he didn’t trust the guy as far as he could throw him.

            The day went by tediously slowly. After the meet-up with Svet, he had a costume fitting downtown, followed by three auditions, and an hour taping a commercial on a soundstage that looked like it was paid for by Girl Guide cookies. He ate in the car, scarfed down McDonalds like it might be the last time he ever tasted it, even if he cheated on his diet constantly. Then he went to argue with his publicist about a photo shoot she wanted him to do – Christmas underwear model. Fuck no. Another audition and then he was back in the car, ready to head home.

            “Hey, can we make a stop first?” Mickey knew it was weird to ask to go back to the Southside – he honestly hadn’t been back since he was sixteen – but the driver said nothing. Mickey guessed he got paid by the hour and the Southside was far enough away to add quite a bit of time onto the bill.

            As they drove down, Mickey watched the buildings go from downtown chic, to pleasantly humble, to broken down, to whatever someone called the shit structures that stood in his old neighbourhood. His heart hammered in his chest, but he swallowed it. For all he knew, his dad was dead, his brothers had gotten out, and no one even lived in his house anymore. Not that it mattered. He was there for the Gallaghers, not his own family.

            He slipped out of the car, told the driver to wait ten minutes, and walked through the gate. The Gallagher house looked the same as he remembered, if maybe a little worse for wear. The front window was covered with cardboard and the door hung just slightly open, one of the hinges loose. A shingle fell off the roof a foot in front of Mickey. He swore.

            If he had to pick the one moment in his life where he knew beforehand that he had made a terrible mistake, this was it. Being back in the Southside, breathing the air there, shivering in its cold, brought flashbacks to Mickey’s mind. Just being there was a massive trigger. All he wanted was to get his hands on a bottle or a joint or whatever else would get him high out of his mind. Forgetting this place had always been the goal, even when he had spent most of his time in hotels near the shooting locations.

            Mickey knocked on the door and then stepped inside, certain no one had heard. The Gallagher house had always been a mess – more than a mess, a disaster zone – but stepping inside had used to feel safe. Even if his own home meant trouble, the Gallagher’s meant warmth, family, and a place to sleep that smelled like Ian. Mickey didn’t want to come back and find out that his memories, all of them, had been dashed.

            But he was already there. And the house smelled like weed and burning bread. Mickey brought a hand up to his mouth, breathed in fabric freshener, and then called, “Fiona?”

            “In here!”

            Mickey headed towards the kitchen. She was bent over, head in the oven, cursing under her breath. He waited. When she looked up, she was halfway through a sentence – “don’t even know how to fucking fix” – but she trailed off the minute she saw Mickey. Her face went white as a sheet, like she’d seen a ghost. And maybe he was a ghost to her, a stupid reminder that the Southside didn’t have to swallow people. “Mickey,” she said.

            “Hey.”

            “Hey.” She forced a smile and hugged him quick. “What brings you around? Ian’s not here, but I’m sure if I told him—”

            “No,” Mickey said. He stepped away from her, away from her hospitality, away from the sweetness of her voice. He shouldn’t have come. He should have called. Because being there... he could have simply emptied his pockets and given it all to her – cash, credit cards, whatever else he had. Fiona had taken care of him when no one else had. Fiona was somehow, stupidly, the closest thing he had to a mother. “I’m here because of Ian, actually,” Mickey said.

            “What about him?”

            “He says he doesn’t live here anymore.”

            Fiona shrugged. “Guess he doesn’t then.”

            “Would you take him back?”

            “He’s welcome here if he pays his share.” Fiona slammed the oven door. “He knows that.”

            “Look, I found him on the street last night, completely fucked up.”

            “Not surprising.”

            Mickey watched Fiona rummage through the cupboards. He had opened his mouth to say something – what, he didn’t know – but closed it promptly. His mind spun looking for something to say. “Aren’t you worried?”

            Fiona snorted. “If I wasted my energy worrying about Ian, I wouldn’t do anything else.”

            “But... he needs help, Fiona.”

            “And when he wants help, I’ll give it to him.” Fiona pulled a frozen dinner from the freezer and shoved it into the microwave. “But right now, like always, he’s out of a job, on a bender, and doesn’t give two flying fucks about getting better. Whatever better means.”

            “What the fuck happened to you?”

            “To me?” Fiona laughed. “Take a good look at yourself and then ask who’s changed.”

            “You used to care about your siblings more than anything.”

            “And now they’re all grown up and I have a chance to live my own life. Should I screw that up just because they’re intent on still needing me?”

            Mickey shook his head. “He really needs help.”

            “Mickey, I’m not arguing with you.” Fiona’s face fell and her preoccupation made way for sadness in her dark eyes. “I’m not saying he should be going on like this. But I’m telling you it’s not my problem anymore. If he wants to come home, he can come home. But I’m not going to push and pull and prod him until he no longer wants to throw his life away. That’s not my job.”

            “You did it for Lip.”

            “And look how well that went.”

            Mickey blinked, but didn’t ask for details. “I can’t just stop my life to fix him.”

            “Then don’t. He doesn’t want help, Mickey.”

            Part of Mickey wanted to cry. He didn’t understand why Fiona wouldn’t just take her brother back and promise to get him into rehab or something. Unless – “I can lend you the money and get him into a really good place, all right? Anything you need. I’ll help.”

            Fiona made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Her palms pressed against Mickey’s cheeks. “You’re really sweet, Mickey, but that’s not the problem. The problem is that Ian’s become the new Frank in my life. He shows up wasted, makes his way into the house through the windows, steals all the cash he can find to fuel his drug habit, and creates scams that make my life a living hell. Now, I’d never lock him out of the house like I do with Frank, but I’m beyond helping him at this point. He might be beyond my help at this point.” She kissed Mickey on the forehead. “I know it must be a shock to you, seeing him like this. But it’s been our reality for almost ten years. So I suggest you stay out of it.”

            “Right,” Mickey said. “But... he can come home? Here, I mean?”

            “Of course. He’s always welcome. He just needs to get a job again.”

            Mickey nodded and then stepped backwards. He made his way out of the house, nearly running by the time he got outside. He slammed into the backseat of the car, snapped, “Home” and buried his face in his hands.

            Ian the new Frank.

            Mickey felt like he might fucking puke.


	4. Chapter 4

Ian started to get bored in Mickey’s house about thirty seconds after Mickey left. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time, then did it again ten seconds later. He’d already rummaged through all the drawers, but he decided to do it again, just to see if there was anything he’d missed while looking for money.

            He found a lot of random knick-knacks, several pieces of junk mail stuffed away, and a few items that he could have sworn used to be on the set of their show. Not that it surprised him Mickey had stolen from set.

            When he ran out of things to look through in the main room, he checked the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. No pills. Not even fucking cold medicine, just a lot of condoms. A lot of unopened boxes of condoms, to be exact. Ian snorted out a laugh. Leave it to Mickey Milkovich to be prepared just in case he ever decided he wanted to be fucked.

            Ian headed into the bedroom next and paused one step in the door. The room smelled like Mickey, warm and sweet and just a little sweaty. It was a little like coming home, a little like sleepovers in hotel rooms and nights sharing a bed at his house. Ian breathed in deeply, then shook it off. He opened the drawer in the bedside table – lube, more condoms, dildos – and closed it fast. He went around to the other side of the bed and opened that drawer – nothing.

            Mickey fucking Milkovich and not a single drug in his house. Unless he was counting alcohol. Ian looked down at his hands and they were steady – for now. Of course, he had downed an eighth of a bottle of vodka less than an hour beforehand.

            He got his phone out and pressed the number for his dealer.

            “You got money?” the woman greeted.

            “Nice to hear from you too, Kits.”

            “You need money to buy, Ian.”

            “I’m good for it.”

            “You never are.”

            Ian bit his bottom lip and checked under the pillows for spare change. Then he checked his pockets. “I’ve got... five dollars.”

            “Actually five dollars or a handful of change you haven’t counted?”

            Ian didn’t reply.

            “Right. Okay, Ian, call me back when you’re not wasting my time.”

            “Kitty—”

            She hung up. Ian crunched his fist around his phone, refused to throw it at the wall when there was no way in hell he could afford a new one. Especially when Mickey apparently didn’t leave money lying around his house. It’s like he expected random junkies to be wandering through his house on a daily basis. Or maybe he did it in case the paparazzi broke in. Or a crazy fan.

            There was still plenty to steal, if Ian wanted to get out of there with some fast cash. He fingered some of the more expensive items – the signed posters, the kitchen appliances, the egg – but left them alone. Mickey’s place was warm and big and the couch was a lot more comfortable than he would have expected had he ever been asked about the kind of couch Mickey would buy. Not that anyone had ever asked him that, but he used to imagine that someone would. Someone would stop him on the street to ask what Mickey was doing, where Mickey was, if the two still stayed in touch.

            Used to, being the operative word. He was long over fantasies that he and Mickey would reconnect. And of course, as soon as those fantasies were over, they came true. Albeit, in a different way than Ian had expected, but still true all the same.

            Ian went back to the alcohol cabinet and took out the bottle of vodka. The whole thing would probably kill him if he drank too fast, so he looked around for something to slow him down. He turned on the TV – intent on flipping through the channels until he found a soap opera or something else that sucked – but the DVD player roared to life instead. Within seconds, the theme song to their old show was blasting through the apartment.

            Ian turned down the volume fast, but didn’t turn off the TV. He hesitated, then pressed play. The DVD player whirred. Then the screen lit up with the high school set – bright green lockers against yellow walls – and the background noise boomed through the speakers behind him. He could hear all the gibberish that came out of the extras’ mouths, the sound of their feet on the tile.

            Mickey came on screen. Fifteen year-old Mickey. Mickey small and a little pudgy and messy in a way that even the make-up artists couldn’t fix. He wore a plaid shirt and ripped jeans, looked kind of like an ad for Gap.

            Then Ian appeared with a goofy smile on his face, freckles pricked across his cheeks. The look in his eyes – wide and desperate and oh-so-innocent – made him want to fucking die. He flopped back on the couch and took a swig of vodka. That was the game then. Take a drink every time his face made him want to die.

            However, that was a recipe for alcohol poisoning. Every time he showed up – and he showed up a lot, being one of the two main characters on the show – he looked like a damn puppy dog. And the way he looked at Mickey... had he really been so obviously gone for him? Had Mickey really not noticed until he’d tried to kiss him at the cast Christmas party? God, even he wanted to slap himself for going around mooning after the guy.

            That wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was that since the show was getting older and they were getting older, the main plots in the last season revolved around the girls they went out with. And since Ian sucked at kissing in the first place, and sucked at kissing girls more, it was downright painful to watch. Ian thought he might just bash the bottle over his head and get his death over with.

            He stopped two episodes in and got the disc out of the DVD player. He opened the cabinet under the TV to reveal the full set of show DVDS – all seven seasons. With a smile, Ian switched over to season one and settled back onto the couch.

            The acting was worse, way worse, like _who the fuck hired them_ worse. But at least he didn’t look at Mickey nearly as much or as hopelessly. And luckily there was only one kiss in the entire season. Ian even remembered the episode – season one, episode twelve. He remembered because Frank and Monica had had a hissy fit about the writers making their eight year-old son kiss someone. Of course, they’d shut up as soon as the studio offered him a raise to do it.

            Ian snuggled down on the couch and drank until he ran out of vodka. He considered going for something else – Mickey had plenty of alcohol – but closed his eyes instead.

            He woke with a start who the fuck knew how much later. All he knew was that he’d heard the door slam shut and in a second he was sitting upright, heart pounding. It took him a second to remind himself he was safe. He wasn’t home, but he was safe. He was at Mickey’s. No one was coming home that he needed to be scared of.

            “Why are you watching this shit?” Mickey said.

            “You’re the one who has it on DVD,” Ian replied. He swallowed a burp and had to close his eyes tight against the pain of it.

            “I don’t watch it.”

            “It was in the player.” Ian leaned back and tried to look at Mickey over the back of the couch. The motion made his head swirl, pound.

            “Are you drunk?”

            “Huh? No.”

            Mickey came around the couch and picked up the empty vodka bottle. “This was almost full this morning.”

            Ian shrugged. “My dad’s an alcoholic. Takes more than that to... umm...” Ian moved his hand in a circular motion, shrugged. “Whatever.”

            Mickey said nothing. Instead, he sat down on the coffee table and faced Ian. “Look, I talked to Fiona today. She said that if you get a job, you can go home. She’s not mad and she wants to make sure you’re okay.”

            Ian laughed. “How much of that did you make up?”

            “I didn’t—”

            “Fiona thinks I’m Frank reincarnated and he’s not even dead yet.” Ian smiled big as he could and leaned into Mickey’s personal space. He looked up into blue eyes. “She’d rather I die in a ditch than keep me in her house.”

            Mickey pushed him back lightly. “That’s not true. You just need to pull your weight.”

            “Do I look like I can pull my weight?”

            Mickey bit his bottom lip. “Ian, I can’t...” He looked down at his hands. “There are a lot of things about my life right now and my life in general that you can’t... you can’t understand. And I can’t have you around just fucking things up.”

            Ian blinked. “Right.”

            “It’s just—”

            “No. I get it.” Ian shifted back on the couch, considered standing but decided that wasn’t really an option. “I do. I’m not the kind of person you can be seen around and it’s just too easy for you to be seen. It’s just kind of shitty that that means you can’t help an old friend.”

            “I want to help you. I do, Ian. But—”

            “It’s too hard. I get it.”

            “I’ve helped enough people in my life, Ian. I don’t need you shitting on me for not being able to do it this one time.”

            “Enough people? Who have you helped other than Mandy and yourself? You didn’t even help yourself. The show dug you out of a fucking hole because it was bad for their image when you puked on the fucking set.” Ian pushed up off the couch. “But, you know what? I didn’t ask you to help me. I didn’t ask to be your fucking charity case. I just wanted a place to sleep for a couple of nights, but if that’s too damn hard for you—”

            “Ian.” Mickey grabbed Ian’s hand. Ian felt sparks shoot up through his bones. Mickey’s blue eyes looked up at him, soft and sweet and broken. “I’m not saying that you can’t be in my house. I’m saying that you can’t be in my house _like this_.”

            “What the fuck does that mean?”

            “It means you can’t get drunk in the middle of the day. I had problems before you did. And this behaviour is triggering as fuck.”

            Ian stared for a moment, then nodded. He squeezed Mickey’s hand and sat back down, put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry. Fuck.” Ian looked up at Mickey, sniffed. “I don’t mean to cause problems for you, or whatever. I’m just... I’m fucked up, Mick. And I can’t just turn it off. So if you can’t handle it, I’ll leave.”

            Mickey stared at him for a very long time. Ian didn’t know what to think or what to feel. He could hear his heartbeat though, wondered if Mickey could too. He’d already planned the next three months of his life around being able to sleep on Mickey’s couch – maybe eventually in his bed – and couldn’t believe he’d fucked it up on the first day. Of course Mickey didn’t want him getting drunk in his house. Thank god Kitty had shut him down.

            Ian placed a hand on Mickey’s knee. He rubbed circles with his thumb on the outside of Mickey’s thigh. “You know, I was always really damn proud of you for getting clean. It must have been fucking impossible with your family, but you did it. You did it for yourself and for Mandy and for your career and... I couldn’t be fucking prouder that you got your life together, man.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Mandy, too.”

            Mickey nodded.

            Ian let his hand creep up further on Mickey’s thigh. Mickey didn’t react. Damn. Ian only needed a couple of minutes in the guy’s presence to go back to being a fifteen year-old with a crush. He scratched his nails against Mickey’s jeans, let his hand slide back down to his knee. “Please don’t kick me out,” Ian said. “I can’t be at Fiona’s right now. I can’t.”

            “What happened?”

            “This time or in general?” Ian smiled weakly and went on without a reply. “In general... I pulled Lip down the rabbit hole with me. Fucked him up quite a bit, but he’s pulled out of it... mostly. I don’t know if I can blame myself for Debbie or not, or if I should just blame television. Carl... Carl’s good. He joined the army a couple of months ago.”

            “Wasn’t that your dream?”

            Ian shrugged. “I guess. But that didn’t really pay the bills like acting, did it?”

            Mickey smiled.

            “Then Liam’s still in school. Frank and Monica are god knows where. They’ve been gone for a while, actually, haven’t heard from them.” Ian stroked his palm down Mickey’s thigh. “And, uh, this time, I got fired and couldn’t make rent, so Fiona semi-kicked me out. More likely I kicked myself out but I don’t... really remember.”

            “Fired from where?”

            “Uh, just, this place.”

            Mickey raised an eyebrow.

            Ian sighed. “The Fairy Tail. It’s a gay bar on—”

            “It’s a strip club.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Tell me you were just a bartender.”

            Ian stayed silent.

            “You danced?”

            “I did more than dance. I sucked guys off in the back room. Which is why I was fired.”

            Mickey stared, open-mouthed. Ian let him struggle with it, not knowing whether it was the situation or the image that gave him trouble. He continued to occupy himself by stroking Mickey’s thigh and drawing swirls on the inseam of his jeans. If he focused his attention, he could see the little adjustments Mickey made.

            “You sucked guys off for money?” Mickey said.

            “What? Did I not offer last night?”

            “You did, but...”

            “You thought I was just fucked up.”

            Mickey shook his head. “Damn it, Ian.”

            Ian stopped moving his hand, but left it on Mickey’s leg.

            “How the hell did you get to this point?” Mickey said. Tears pricked at his eyelashes. “You were as good as I was. Better, even. So why throw it the fuck away to get high in clubs? You never once showed half a fucking interest in that before the show ended, so why after? Why ruin your entire life like that?”

            Ian trailed a finger up the inseam of Mickey’s jeans. “You were gone.”

            “What?”

            “You kept me together for so fucking long, Mick. You made my house feel like home. Like a safe place. When it wasn’t. It might have been better than your home, but it wasn’t heaven. And then you moved away, which all right, because I still saw you every day on set, but the show ended a year later and you weren’t around and I was alone, in the Southside, no longer the golden boy making my family enough money to get through the winter with.” Ian sniffed. “So I tried to fill the hole. And my influences at home aren’t exactly stellar, so... I got fucked.”

            “It’s my fault?”

            “I don’t... please don’t think that.” Ian wiped a tear from Mickey’s cheek.

            “But that’s what you’re saying.”

            “I’m not... I can’t... fuck, Mick.” Ian pulled back and wiped a hand across his face. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I really need to go get something.”

            “Something?”

            “Blow. Smack. Whatever.” Ian held up his shaking hand as proof.

            Mickey shook his head. “You don’t need to—”

            “Yeah, Mick, I do.”

            Another tear rolled down Mickey’s face, but Ian didn’t reach for it. “Fine,” Mickey said. “Whatever. Go.”

            “I, umm... I need some money.”

            “I’m not going to fund your drug habit.”

            “I won’t ask again, ever.”

            Mickey hesitated, but then pulled out his wallet. He handed over two twenties.

            Ian got up without looking back at him. He could feel his whole body shaking, but he wasn’t sure if it was nerves or emotions or withdrawal. He took one of Mickey’s jackets and headed out the door. It wasn’t until he was in the elevator that he pressed a shaking finger to Kitty’s name.

            “No credit, Ian.”

            “I got cash.”

            “Who’d you blow?”

            Ian smiled. “You wouldn’t believe me.”


	5. Chapter 5

Mickey lasted about five minutes before he went after Ian. It’s not like the Southside hadn’t taught him simple fucking things like _don’t give drug addicts money_ but apparently he’d forgotten everything he’d ever been told when looking into Ian’s puppy dog eyes. Damn it. Why was it that within the space of twenty-four hours he’d somehow gone back nine years to when he’d do anything just because Ian asked him? Of course, back then it had been, _please don’t go home_ and _this scene is really important to me, can you please take it seriously_ not _give me twenty bucks to go get fucked_. Apparently the difference didn’t matter to Mickey’s brain.

            He grabbed a coat – the one Ian hadn’t stolen and unfortunately the warmer of the two – and headed out into the hall. The elevator was already gone, with Ian on it, so Mickey started down the stairs, going two at a time. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He hadn’t been so worried about anyone since before he got Mandy out and he didn’t know what to do with the feeling. It made him feel fourteen again – alone, too young, and holding the world on his shoulders. But that wasn’t the world anymore. He had his shit together and Ian wasn’t Mandy. Ian wasn’t really his responsibility.

            So when he walked out onto the sidewalk, looked both ways, and couldn’t see Ian, he gave up. There was no knowing which of the hundreds of dealers in the city Ian went to, especially now that Mickey was no longer on speaking terms with half of them. Most of the ones he knew were probably in jail or long gone.

            His phone buzzed in his pocket. A call from Mandy. He hesitated and then picked up while he walked. “Hey,” he said. “Good to hear from you.”

            “Hey!” Mandy’s voice blew warm through the phone, steadied Mickey’s erratic heartbeat. “I know I haven’t called in a week, but things are crazy out here. We’re starting previews in three days and half the choreography’s not even done and they’re talking about replacing the male lead with someone more famous, though I hope they don’t because I _love_ Victor.” Mandy paused to breathe. “What’s up with you? Last time I called you were between projects. You shooting anything yet?”

            “Not yet.” Mickey eyed the convenience store as he passed, itched for a cigarette. “I’m doing a lot of promotional shit right now.”

            “That sounds fun.”

            “It’s not.” Mickey thought he saw a flash of red hair in the darkness, but it turned out to be someone with a red hat. He bit down on his sigh. “I went to a couple of auditions today though. Hopefully something will shake out of it.”

            “More movies?”

            “Yeah. A horror thing about a haunted doll and two actions movies with basically the same premise.”

            “You should do musicals. More variety.”

            Mickey laughed. “I’ll die before you get me into tights.”

            “What are you up to right now? Sounds like you’re outside.”

            “Yeah.” Mickey searched for a lie. Acting had made him a better liar, but not better at thinking on his feet. If anything, he was worse at that part now, used to all his conversations being scripted. “I’m looking for someone.”

            “Who?”

            Mickey hesitated as he flagged down a cab. “You remember Ian Gallagher?”

            “Sure. You still talk to him?”

            “Define talk.” Mickey slid into the cab and then realized he had no idea where he wanted to go. Out of habit, he named a club street downtown. “I ran into him last night and he slept on my couch. And now he’s staying.”

            Mandy stayed silent. The streets buzzed by, the driver going way too fast. Mickey wondered if maybe he should have bothered to hide his face or take note of where he was going, if anyone was following him. Oh well. If the paparazzi got a shot of him out at night, the speculation wasn’t going to be that bad. At the most, they’d think he’d slipped back into old habits, and those rumours were always easy to disperse.

            “Staying?” Mandy said. “Like at your place?”

            “Yup.”

            “Didn’t he... I mean, last time you saw him, you punched him in the face.”

            Mickey winced. He must have blocked that out, but now that Mandy mentioned it, he remembered. It had been the show’s Christmas party, which had doubled as the wrap party since they got cancelled halfway through the last season. No one had known that yet, though. Champagne was flowing – technically for the adults, but it wasn’t hard for Mickey to snag a few glasses – and he and Ian were truly drunk. No paparazzi were allowed in the event, so that took care of that problem, but adults were constantly shoving them out of pictures and into corners and sitting them down at tables in the back just in case photographers got through security.

            When the actress who played Ian’s mom pushed them back towards the bar, Mickey hit his head on the wall. Ian had feigned concern, felt into Mickey’s skull with his fingertips, and declared that everything was all right. Then he looked up. Mistletoe.

            And part of Mickey must have thought it was a joke. Or part of him was too drunk to realize that it wasn’t. But Ian had gotten his lips on him, hot and desperate. It had taken Mickey a moment to realize what was happening. Then he’d shoved Ian backwards and punched him in the face repeatedly until someone had pulled him off.

            He remembered there’d been talk of sending the two of them to counselling, of the producers getting them in a room together. He remembered someone pressing ice against his knuckles and giving him a very stern speech about attacking co-workers. He remembered that the show got cancelled, he’d gotten his last paycheck, and he’d never seen Ian again.

            “Mick?” Mandy said.

            “Sorry.”

            “You know I love Ian,” she said, “but if he’s anything like he was after the show got cancelled... you can’t let him back into your life. You’re doing so well. I don’t want you to throw that away for anyone. Not even Ian.”

            Mickey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I know. That seems to be the general consensus.”

            “Then what are you doing?”

            “You haven’t seen him, Mandy. He’s... he’s worse than I used to be. And he’s giving guys blowjobs for money. Fiona kicked him out or didn’t, I’m not really sure who to believe there. He went without blow for maybe a day and he was shaking so bad...”

            “I know you feel bad for him, but—”

            “It’s not my job.”

            “Get him into rehab. And then he can help himself.”

            “He doesn’t want that.”

            Mandy sighed. “Mick, if I’m honest with you, promise you won’t get upset?”

            Mickey’s heart pounded a little faster. He was almost 100% sure he didn’t want to know what she was going to say, but the traffic was stop and go and he didn’t want to talk to the driver. “Promise,” he said.

            Mandy hesitated. Her breath came short through the line, stopped, and then steadied. “Okay. I’m only saying this because you need to understand why you’re doing what you’re doing.”

            “You mean it’s not because I’m suddenly a good person?”

            “No, Mick, it’s not. We both know that you wouldn’t do this for anyone else.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “You love him. You always have. And you know I worked my ass off to get you to forget about him the first time, because you weren’t strong enough to have his coked-up ass in your life.” Mandy sniffed. “Don’t make me do it again, Mick. I love Ian too. And I don’t want to be the reason you have to hurt him again, okay?”

            Mickey shook his head. He didn’t know what to do with the words she was saying or how to interpret them or anything. The cab turned down an emptier street and started to go faster. Streetlights flashed by fast.

            “What?” Mickey said.

            “Get him out of your life, Mick. He’s not your responsibility.”

            “He took care of me. He took care of _you_. Don’t I owe him something?”

            “Do you owe him your life going up in smoke?”

            The cab turned onto the street Mickey had asked to go to and the driver wanted to know where Mickey would get off. Mickey gestured vaguely to a building, told Mandy goodbye without answering, and stepped out onto the street. He breathed in the sharp, cold air and felt his nerves freeze. Mandy’s words ran through his head on a loop and he’d forgotten why he’d asked to go to this street.

            The clubs blasted music out onto the sidewalk. Few people were around but those who were shouted and laughed and pushed each other around. Mickey knew it was a bad idea to be there, to be potentially photographed there, but he kept walking. Some part of his brain must have known why he wanted to go there.

            Then he saw it. The Fairy Tail.

            He couldn’t just walk inside a gay strip club and not expect people to take notice. He looked around the street, saw no photographers, no one who seemed to be looking at him. True, he’d been wrong about that before. Everyone had a cell phone these days. It didn’t have to be paparazzi that caught him; it could be any kid with an iPhone.

            Mickey walked into the Fairy Tail anyways. He pushed through the crowd by the door and headed straight for the bar. He tried not to look up at the men dancing on the platforms. He tried not to notice the way the guys looked at him. He tried to breathe.

            “And what can I get for you, sweetie?” the bartender said.

            “I’m wondering about an employee of yours.”

            “They go for two hundred an hour.”

            “What?”

            The bartender tilted his head and pursed his lips. “Like that wasn’t what you were asking.”

            “No.” Mickey felt anger rise in him, but he beat it down. He needed information, not to get thrown out for punching the bartender. “I’m wondering about Ian Gallagher.”

            “We fired him.”

            “Why?”

            “We don’t mind a little bit of a drug problem, but when you’re stumbling on stage and can’t get it up after hours, you’re pretty much useless around here.”

            “Right.”

            “I’ve probably still got his number if you wanna hire him for the night.”

            Mickey shook his head and stepped back from the bar. It’s not like he hadn’t expected Ian to lie to him, but he wondered why he’d openly admit to prostitution but not to a problem. Unless he knew how Mickey would react. Unless he didn’t want Mickey to know that Fiona had been right – he really was the new Frank.

            Mickey ran a hand through his hair and blinked back tears. _He’s not your responsibility._ He tried to hold onto that notion, but failed. Even if Ian wasn’t usually his responsibility, he’d been the one to give him money tonight. And that meant he was responsible for tonight, no matter what. So if Ian banged some old guy or broke into a store or ended up freezing on the street because he couldn’t make his way back to Mickey’s...

            “Hey,” a voice said.

            Mickey turned to face a very short girl with dark red hair. He raised an eyebrow.

            “He’s fine. Go home.”

            “What?”

            She rolled her eyes. “He didn’t have enough to get more than a solid high. He’ll be fine. Can’t say the same about you, though.”

            “What?”

            She didn’t say anything, just grabbed Mickey’s wrist and started to pull him through the crowd. She pushed through a door that read _Employees Only_ and waved to the half-naked men on the other side of it. Mickey kept his eyes down. With a few more steps, they were outside at the back of the building and she’d let go of him.

            “Don’t fuck up your life for him,” she said.

            “Who the fuck are you?”

            “Kitty. I’m his dealer.”

            Mickey sized her up. He could easily take her, since she was the size of a small child, but he resisted the urge to simply punch her into next week. For one, she was a girl. For another, she had blue-black tattoos that looked like juvie scars. She raised an eyebrow at him, challenging.

            “Don’t tell me what to do,” Mickey said.

            “I’m just saying. I know a lost cause when I see one. You should too.”

            Mickey shook his head and walked away from her. She shouted something after him, but he couldn’t hear her over the blood pounding in his ears. He walked away from the Fairy Tail and caught a cab on a different street to go home.

            Inside his apartment, he shrugged off his coat and looked at the couch. Part of him had hoped Ian would already be there, fast asleep, but no such luck. With a sigh, Mickey headed into his bedroom, stripping as he went. He crawled into bed in only a t-shirt and his underwear and bunched the pillow under his head, closed his eyes.

            He must have fallen asleep at some point, but only so briefly that it felt like he hadn’t slept at all. The numbers on his alarm clock kept moving. Midnight. One. Two. The door to the apartment opened sometime after three and Mickey immediately felt his whole body relax. Maybe he should have been more worried, given he’d left the door unlocked and he didn’t know who was coming in. But he hoped it was Ian. He hoped so hard that he _knew_ it was Ian.

            Closing his eyes again, he settled deeper under the covers. He almost fell right asleep, but then the door to his bedroom opened. Mickey managed to open one eye. He couldn’t see a lot in the darkness but he felt the weight in his bed and then Ian snuggling up behind him.

            “Ian—”

            “Shh. It’s cold.”

            “It’s not cold.”

            “It is outside.” Ian’s hands came down on Mickey’s neck, ice cold. “And I’m fucking freezing.”

            “That’s not a reason to crawl into my bed.”

            “Body heat.” Ian wrapped an arm around Mickey’s torso and pulled him closer. His hot breath hit Mickey’s ear, setting every nerve in Mickey’s body on fire. He nestled his nose into the crook of Mickey’s neck and let out a sigh of relief.

            Mickey was suddenly very awake and very aware of every part of his body that was touching Ian. He wanted to find the words to fight Ian, to send Ian back to the couch, but his mouth had frozen. Maybe that was Ian’s influence – the man really was an icicle. Maybe it was something else. _You love him._

            “Ian. Please.” Mickey closed his eyes. “Go back to the couch.”

            One of Ian’s hands crept under Mickey’s shirt and his knuckles rubbed over Mickey’s spine. Mickey’s shivered under his icy fingers, but slowly felt himself relaxing under Ian’s careful ministrations. “You’re so tense,” Ian whispered. His lips fluttered against the shell of Mickey’s ear. “Jesus. Doesn’t your rich ass have enough money for a massage?”

            “No time.”

            Ian hummed and added his other hand to the mix. He circled his thumbs just under Mickey’s shoulders and Mickey tensed up, murmured in pain. Ian whispered gibberish to get him through it, rolled the knotted muscles under his thumbs. He pressed kisses to the back of Mickey’s neck and Mickey pretended not to notice, not to mind. He’d stop it if Ian got handsy, but the gentle press of his lips against his neck seemed innocent enough.

            “Ian?” Mickey said.

            Ian pressed his nose against Mickey’s neck and let his hot breath pool down Mickey’s spine. His hands worked down Mickey’s sides, strong and gentle.

            “Where’d you learn to do this?”

            “You ever heard of a rub ‘n’ tug?”

            Mickey lapsed into silence. _He’s not my responsibility. Not my responsibility. Not my responsibility._ “Met your dealer today,” he said. “What is she? Eight?”

            Ian laughed. “Twenty-one.”

            “In what world?”

            Ian’s giggles made his hands vibrate, his breath puff unevenly against Mickey’s skin. He had worked his way down Mickey’s back and was now getting dangerously close to the waistband of Mickey’s boxers. His thumbs trailed over the skin just above the fabric but didn’t dip any lower. Mickey couldn’t breathe because he didn’t want to adjust at all and risk Ian moving. Lips pressed to his skin again, slow, soft kisses just below his ear.

            Mickey pressed his eyes closed. “How high are you?”

            “Average.”

            “Ian.”

            Ian’s fingers dipped under Mickey’s boxers and he kneaded his ass. Mickey bit back his breath, bit his bottom lip hard. Ian’s hands spread over his ass and rubbed with the same rhythm of the massage, like nothing had changed at all.

            Mickey had noticed himself reacting beforehand, but now that things had amped up, there was no more ignoring what was going on in his pants. He let out a small whine – low enough that he could hope Ian hadn’t heard him – and bit the edge of his pillow.

            Ian sucked on his earlobe for a moment, then whispered, “I think you’re good.” He tapped him on the ass playfully and then removed his hands.

            Mickey still didn’t breathe. Ian shifted closer, brought one arm under Mickey’s head and wrapped the other around his chest loosely. His fingers tapped against Mickey’s bare stomach and he shifted several times to try to find a better position.

            Mickey did his best not to move as he wondered what to do about his erection. He could ignore it and hope it went away. He could try to jack off quietly once Ian went to sleep. He could get up and take care of things in the bathroom. It didn’t help matters that Ian’s shifting only brought his hips closer to Mickey’s ass and Mickey could feel him through the thin fabric between them. Ian may have stopped massaging him, but he shifted the arm around Mickey so much that Mickey thought he might have to push him away if he had any chance of not coming untouched.

            Then the worst happened. Ian, in his constant adjustments, brushed his hand up against Mickey’s erection. His whole body stopped moving. Mickey silently prayed.

            “Mick—”

            “Go to sleep,” Mickey snapped.

            Ian pressed his palm up against Mickey’s erection and Mickey did his best not to make a sound. His lips moved silently around gibberish words. He couldn’t think right. Everything was jumbled.

            “Want me to help?” Ian said.

            “Help?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I’m not gay.”

            Ian kissed his neck again and shifted closer. He rubbed his fingers up Mickey’s shaft. “Not what I asked,” he whispered.

            Mickey tasted blood on his bottom lip. Somehow, Ian had made him even harder with a simple touch. “What... what would helping entail?”

            “Couple options. I could jack you off or get under the covers and blow you.”

            “That it?”

            “I could also fuck you into the mattress so hard you won’t be able to walk for a few days.”

            Chills shot through Mickey’s spine. “What if... what if I need to walk?”

            “Then I wouldn’t suggest that option.”

            Mickey kept his eyes closed, tried not to focus on the feel of Ian’s long fingers on his dick. If he breathed, he could almost pretend he was under control. But then Ian started to suck on his neck and his hand dipped under Mickey’s boxers.

            “Fuck,” Mickey mumbled. “Fuck.”

            “What do you want?”

            “I want... Jesus. Just do it.”

            “Do what?”

            “Fuck me.”

            Ian pressed a smile into Mickey’s neck. “You sure?”

            “Yes. Please. Fuck me. Please. God, Ian—”

            Ian pulled his hand back and Mickey shivered all over. He expected Ian to turn him over, Ian to get on top of him, Ian to press kisses all the way down his back. He froze, expecting, hoping.

            Then Ian pushed him, hard.

            Mickey scrambled not to fall right out of the bed but failed.

            “Take care of it your fucking self.”

            “What the fuck?” Mickey looked up at the bed, but Ian had turned his back to Mickey.

            Anger bubbled in Mickey’s stomach, but shame overran it. He could feel his cheeks go hot, even as the rest of his body got cold. Scrambling to his feet, he headed to the bathroom. He didn’t turn on the light. He didn’t want to see himself. He knew well enough what he’d look like – flushed, flustered, with tears dripping down his cheeks. He jacked off quickly, washed his hands, and then hesitated.

            He wouldn’t go back to bed. Instead, he walked into the living room and curled up under Ian’s blanket. He didn’t sleep the whole night long.


	6. Chapter 6

Ian woke alone in Mickey’s bed. The whole place smelled of him, so intensely and desperately that for a moment Ian wanted to drown in it. He fisted his hands in the sheets and brought them up to his nose, breathed in hard.

            He hadn’t been bad enough last night to forget what happened, but he wished he had been. He wished he’d either had less or more. Less so that he never would have gotten the stupid idea in his head to crawl into bed with Mickey. More so that he would have gone through with fucking him. But Mickey had been tired, Ian had been stoned, and neither of them had been thinking straight.

            He had done the right thing. But it felt so shitty.

            Ian pulled himself out of the bed and stumbled into the main room. Mickey was at the stove, flipping a pancake. Ian stared at his back, at the line of his shoulders, at the muscles that showed through his tight-fitting top. He remembered what they felt like under his hands, what Mickey had sounded like when he touched him.

            Ian did the only thing he could to make it better. “Morning,” he said. He rubbed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see Mickey look at him. “How’d I wind up in your bed?”

            “You were cold.”

            “Well, thanks for not kicking me out.”

            Mickey didn’t reply. Ian watched him get tense and ruin all the good work he’d done on his back last night. But he couldn’t say anything about that. Because Mickey was probably already embarrassed enough without Ian admitting that he remembered the incident. It’d be worse if Ian attempted to apologize.

            Ian sat down on the couch and waited for Mickey to finish making breakfast. When he did, he sat down in the armchair perpendicular to Ian and set a plate down in front of him. Ian grabbed his fork and knife and dug in.

            “I need to talk to you about something,” Mickey said.

            Ian looked up at Mickey curiously, didn’t want to assume what the conversation was about. He chewed on his pancakes.

            “If you’re going to stay here, we need to set some ground rules.”

            “Okay.”

            “First off, no more crawling into my bed in the middle of the night—”

            “If I’m high, I can’t—”

            “No more getting high.” Mickey gave him a very serious look – the kind he gave people he was explaining bombs to in his movies. “If that’s too hard for you, I can get you any kind of help you want, but I don’t want you high in my house. I don’t want drugs in my house. If you’re going to stay here, you need to get clean.”

            Ian stared at him for a moment, then looked down at his feet. “Mick, I don’t think you know—”

            “Know what? How fucking hard it is? Which one of us has done this before, Ian?”

            Ian bit his lip. “You.”

            “Exactly.” Mickey took a bite of his pancakes, chewed, swallowed. “So I’ll give you any support you need, but if you slip up, don’t come back here.”

            “Ever?”

            “Just for the night.”

            Ian nodded. He tried to catch glimpses of Mickey out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t figure out what the other man was thinking. He ate more of his pancakes and waited for Mickey to go on.

            “I’m not going to say no alcohol, because that’d make me a hypocrite, but you need to drink a hell of a lot less.” Mickey took a deep breath. “And I need you to stop making passes at me. Completely. Not even if you’re just joking.”

            “Okay.”

            “There’s a diner down the street that needs a dishwasher. I pulled some strings with the manager and got you the job, but you need to go to every shift. And you need to not fuck it up, all right?”

            “Yeah.”

            Mickey finally managed to catch Ian’s eye and Ian didn’t immediately want to look away. Mickey said, “I’m going to take care of you, okay? I know I didn’t nine years ago and I know that I needed to and I’m sorry. We’re going to get you back on your feet, okay?”

            Ian nodded, but could find nothing else to say. He went back to his pancakes.

            After the two finished breakfast, Mickey headed out for his first task of the day. He had given Ian a key to the apartment and his phone number, just in case. Then he told Ian the name of the diner so he could go down the block and introduce himself. Ian had nodded through everything, careful to only look at Mickey when he was looking at him, trying really hard not to remember everything from last night.

            When Mickey was gone, Ian took a shot of bourbon just to steady his nerves. Then he headed down the street to the diner.

            The place was nice. No Patsy’s Pies, that was for sure. It had varnished wood walls, smooth red booths with no holes in them, and clean tables. The clientele looked happy and bright. Most were dressed in suits or dresses, ready to immediately take off for work, if they weren’t already at work for a breakfast meeting. Ian had never felt so out of place anywhere in his life.

            “Table for one?” the hostess asked. Her smile didn’t even falter upon seeing Ian.

            “Uh, no.” Ian considered simply stepping out the door and telling Mickey that he couldn’t do it. That he stuck out like a sore thumb in this crowd. That the world could end before he walked into this place everyday just to be ridiculed as a charity case. But he forced himself to breathe. He’d embarrassed the shit out of Mickey last night and this morning he had turned around and gotten Ian a job. He couldn’t throw that back in his face. “I’m Ian Gallagher. My friend Mickey got me a job here?”

            The hostess’ smile lessened, but didn’t fade. “I don’t know anything about that, but let me take you to the manager’s office.”

            Ian nodded and followed her behind the counter, through the kitchen, and into a cramped office. It was nice to see that in the back, the diner looked the same as Patsy’s. And if he was only expected to wash dishes and clear tables, he could probably handle the invisibility among high class people.

            The hostess introduced him to the manager, Bill, and left. Ian leaned in the doorway since there was no way for him to fit in the small office and, when it became abundantly clear that Bill wasn’t going to say a word, Ian said, “Nice place.”

            “Really nice.”

            “So, umm, when do I start?”

            Bill sighed and turned to Ian. “Look, kid, I’m going to level with you. Mickey got you this job by promising me some free promos and because he’s not a fucking idiot, he told me about you. Not that he needed to. I’m old enough to remember what the tabloids said about you.”

            Ian bit his bottom lip, said nothing.

            “I’m not a big fan of second chances, but I am a big fan of celebrities talking about my diner. So here’s the deal: I’m starting you at three shifts a week for a month and after that, we’ll talk about maybe giving you some more time. If you don’t fuck up first.” Bill tapped his pen against the desk. “This isn’t a free ride. If you come to work drunk or stoned or both, I’m going to throw you out that door myself. I don’t need that kind of reputation with my clients. Southside trash has no place here.”

            “I understand.”

            Bill softened slightly. “They used to say you were a good kid. A real good kid. I’m hoping he’s still in there somewhere.”

            “You and me both.”

            Bill gave Ian the schedule for the week and sent him out the back door. Ian tried not to be offended by that. He really didn’t look like the type for Bill’s diner, even if he was dressed in Mickey’s clothes. He’d chosen the worst ones he could find – jeans that were falling apart, an old grey t-shirt, and a pair of wool socks. Maybe he did it not to stick out. Maybe he did it because all the stuff smelled like Mickey. Anyway he looked at it, he had a serious problem when it came to Mickey Milkovich.

            There really wasn’t much else for Ian to do. He had no money. So he headed back to the apartment, laid down on the couch, and went back to binge-watching their show.


	7. Chapter 7

A week passed without incident, even though Ian didn’t come home three nights. Mickey did his best to keep his mouth shut. That seemed like the best way to go about things for the moment. After all, for more than half the week Ian hadn’t been high – or at least, not noticeably high. And that was a sort of win, right?

            Mickey couldn’t waste a lot of time thinking about it. He had a full schedule that kept him gone all day and Ian worked a lot of night shifts at the diner. More often than not, Mickey only saw Ian when he was fast asleep on the couch. Mickey considered buying a new couch, a more comfortable couch, maybe a pull-out couch, but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the old blue thing. It was the first piece of furniture he had bought when he got his own place. Mandy had picked it out.

            On Friday, Mickey had a rare moment where he got to come home before dinner. That break was due to the fact that he had to go out again that night – a club promotion downtown – but it was a break all the same. He shed his coat at the door and stopped to yawn. He’d been up since five that morning to sneak into Svetlana’s building so people could get pictures of him leaving “sneakily.”

            The toilet flushed and Ian walked out of the bathroom a few seconds later. He froze when he saw Mickey. “Hey,” he said.

            “Hey.” Mickey looked Ian up and down, tried to find the source of his sudden inability to move. “You okay?”

            “Umm...” Ian forced a smile. “Yeah. I was just about to leave, so...”

            “Okay. I’m going to be out late tonight, so—”

            “Well, I probably won’t be back.”

            “Oh.” Mickey felt his heart stutter over a beat. Ian fucking Gallagher. If he could have predicted where they’d be in ten years once the show ended, he wouldn’t have predicted this. He wouldn’t have thought Ian would be standing in his living room, practically a stranger, with his hands in his pockets, nervous to tell Mickey where he was going. If anything, Mickey would have imagined it the other way around. Him fucked up and Ian a rising star. Life just wasn’t fucking fair sometimes. Or always, depending on how you looked at it.

            Ian cleared his throat. “Anyways. I’m going.”

            “Don’t.”

            “What?”

            Mickey hesitated, looked for an excuse. He’d said he’d stay out of Ian’s business, so he couldn’t just blurt out the fucking truth. Ian raised an eyebrow at him. Mickey scrambled. “I’m going to this club opening tonight and they told me to bring a friend to, umm, expand my fucking crew or something. I don’t really know. But I need you to come, Ian. I don’t really have anyone else I can ask.”

            Ian smiled. “You’re lying?”

            “No.”

            “You’ve got a tell.”

            “I’m an actor. I don’t have a fucking tell.”

            “You do.” Ian stepped forward and traced a finger along the top of Mickey’s eyebrow. “Your eyebrow crooks when you lie. The industry calls it your ‘signature look.’”

            Mickey batted Ian’s hand away. “You been fucking stalking me?”

            Ian shrugged. “I pick up a magazine now and then.”

            “Probably to jack off to it.”

            “Why would I do that?” Ian said. He looked genuinely offended for a moment and Mickey’s stomach dropped. He was about to apologize when Ian added, “You have like five hundred fucking films with full frontal nudity.”

            Mickey laughed. He clapped his hand against Ian’s cheek. “Fuck you.”

            Ian shoved him back. “Just being honest.”

            “You’ll come though?”

            Ian bit his bottom lip.

            “Please?”

            “I don’t really wanna be stuck in some straight bar not being allowed to talk to the only person I know there and completely fucking sober.” Ian smiled weakly. “Not that I’m saying it’s your fault, but your publicist would throw a shit fit if we were seen together.”

            “I’ll sneak you in the back and as soon as we’re in the club, there’s a lot less cameras. And the lighting’s shit.”

            “And I’m allowed to drink?”

            “Two drinks.”

            “Four.”

            “I’m not going up.”

            Ian sighed. “Fine.”

            “I’ll call and get you in.” Mickey pulled out his phone and called his publicist, explained the situation to her. There was a lot more yelling than he had expected and Ian laughed at him the whole time, but he got it done. Then he started cooking dinner while Ian sat on the counter and judged the ingredients he chose. Mickey bit down on his smile.

            They ate while watching season three of their old TV show – Ian had hit a growth spurt halfway through and his height difference between episode seven and eight made Mickey spit out his food. Ian reminded Mickey that they had made him stand on a box for a couple of scenes so they could get them both in the shot. Mickey punched him in the arm.

            The night wore on. Ian did the dishes while Mickey sipped on a beer. He felt kind of bad for not offering one to Ian, but he doubted Ian would keep to two drinks in the club, so he couldn’t exactly let him pre-drink too.

            Mickey left the house first. He explained the plan to Ian – go to the club in an hour, come around the back, and the door would be propped open. Ian had nodded, said nothing else. Mickey could feel his heart in his chest, but he wasn’t about to baby Ian or remind him of the rules or do anything else to risk the delicate balance that had been their lives for the past week. The good thing was that Ian wasn’t going to get high tonight. That was all Mickey could really count on.

            Unless he didn’t show up.

            Mickey shook off the thought as his car pulled up in front of Svetlana’s apartment. She came out to the applause of cameras, smiled like a pro, and slipped into the car. Mickey was forever grateful that she didn’t expect him to come to the door for two reasons. One: it kept him out of the camera flashes for a little longer and two: it meant he didn’t have to kiss her hello all the fucking time.

            Svetlana said nothing to him, so Mickey simply told the driver to go. They rode in silence down to the club and when they were three blocks away, Mickey could hear the music. His heart pounded along with the beat. He closed his eyes for a second. Svetlana wrapped her hand around his and squeezed tight.

            Mickey wanted Ian to be there for Ian’s sake, but also for his own. Svetlana was good with loud, cramped spaces and she’d taken care of him in them before. Mickey knew he could last a couple of hours with Svet. But he might actually manage a smile or two if Ian was around to distract him.

            “You ready?” Svetlana asked.

            Mickey nodded.

            The car pulled up to the curb outside the club. Mickey opened the door and looked up at the sign. _Dynamite_ was proclaimed in white lights. If Mickey focused on them long enough, they’d blind him before the photographer’s flashes could. There was a red carpet set up going inside, the crowds blocked off by red and gold fences. People screamed when he stepped out of the car. Svetlana’s nails dug into the palm of his hand and he forced a smile onto his face. He was an actor after all.

            He helped Svetlana from the car and let her step ahead of him onto the carpet. She shone in a short gold dress – all sequins and glitter. Her earrings reflected every flash, dangled from her earlobes in long strings of diamonds. When she smiled, there was none of the strain in it that was in Mickey’s smile. When she waved to the crowds, the volume went up, people begging for her autograph, for her touch, for her body.

            Mickey raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. She turned with love in her eyes, the kind of acting he never seemed to manage, and gave him a long, slow kiss on the lips. Mickey forced himself to kiss back. He forced himself to seem into it. He pretended he was auditioning for a part. But really, he was thinking about how long it would be until Ian got there.

            They started down the pathway, waving to fans, stopping to shake hands and give out autographs. At the doors, the owner of the bar greeted them too enthusiastically and Mickey wondered how much money the guy had shelled out to get them there. Much more money than Mickey got for the appearance, certainly. His publicist and his agent most likely had to be bribed into it.

            “Would you like to do the honours?” the owner said. He offered a pair of scissors to Mickey who stared for a moment before he got the point. The club wasn’t even open yet. That’s why everyone was outside, why everyone had been waiting for them.

            Mickey took the scissors and glanced at Svetlana. She wrapped her hand over his. Together, they cut through the ribbon and the crowd exploded. Mickey flinched, an action that Svetlana covered expertly by kissing his cheek. When she did, she whispered, “You’ll be okay, yes?”

            “Stay close,” Mickey said.

            Svetlana smiled and wiped lipstick off his cheek. And for a moment, everything was okay. For a minute, he didn’t feel terrified. They walked into the club, into the blue-black light, the small hallway. The coat check girl smiled at them, but despite the cold winter air, neither of them had worn a coat. Mickey smoothed down the front of his button-up shirt, wondered if it had been the right move to go with the light blue his publicist had begged him to wear. They walked up a small staircase that emerged into a large space with pounding music, colourful lights, and a bar in the centre.

            Mickey went right for it and asked for a shot of vodka. The bartender complied and Mickey swallowed it down. Svetlana stopped him from ordering another, got him a real drink and made him take his time.

            It wasn’t long before people flooded into the space. Mickey greeted fans, signed autographs, and downed several drinks. Eventually his buzz took over for his nerves, for his absolute certainty that he was going to suffocate in the small space. Svetlana tried to get him onto the dance floor, but he refused several times before she left him alone at the bar.

            Mickey refused to act the part while they were in the bar. The paparazzi hadn’t been allowed in and any shitty cell phone camera was unlikely to catch him in the wild lights. He couldn’t leave though, because the paparazzi would be waiting outside, ready to catch any untimely exit. He’d learned that the hard way the first time he’d promoted a club opening. About ten minutes in, he’d snuck out the back door and thrown up all over the alleyway. The footage had run for a week, lost him three auditions, and made the tabloids speculate that he had a serious drinking problem. His publicist’s solution had been to stop the rumours by admitting Mickey had problems with small, cramped spaces. Mickey had refused to tell the truth and let the story run its course.

            Someone bumped Mickey’s elbow. He glanced over, half expecting a drunk and terrified fan, but got something even better. Ian with a smile on his face.

            “It’s okay that I’m here?” Ian asked.

            Mickey smiled. “Never been so glad to see you, Gallagher.”

            A smile itched at Ian’s lips. He tried to hide it, but it broke through. “You’re drunk?”

            “No.”

            “Your eyebrow says otherwise.”

            “Fuck off.”

            Ian stepped away from the bar and gestured for Mickey to follow him. And maybe Mickey should have questioned it, should have refused, but his heart rate had sped up the second he saw Ian. His drunken brain had only one goal – keep a smile on Ian’s face. If following him would do that, then Mickey would follow Ian anywhere. Even onto the dance floor.

            “You can dance, right?” Ian said.

            Mickey rolled his eyes. “Didn’t I do that dancing movie a few years ago?”

            “I remember a scandal where they said all the dance scenes were stunt doubled.”

            Mickey laughed. He remembered that all too clearly. People had been mad at him for months because he’d taken a role as a breakdancer when he couldn’t breakdance. Like that mattered at all. The movie was really about him, a down-on-his-luck criminal, falling in love with a ballet dancer. No one really gave a fuck about the breakdancing scenes. They only cared that they got to see him shirtless and kissing a girl.

            They shoved through the people on the dance floor until they got to Svetlana, who stood like a golden beacon. She danced like a real star – arms up, body gyrating, the light on her like a spotlight. Her eyes were closed yet no one dared to touch her. Maybe there were too many rumours of her beating up the guys who tried.

            Ian started to dance beside her and Mickey’s eyes tore away from Svetlana. Ian, not famous, not in heels, not in a gold dress, attracted just as much attention with his moves. His body bended in places Mickey hadn’t known were possible. Even fully dressed, Mickey could imagine Ian on a stage in booty shorts, boys begging to touch him.

            “Dance!” Ian yelled.

            Mickey smiled nervously. He looked at the people jumping around him, shouting the lyrics to a song he’d never heard. Before he could protest, before he could say he didn’t dance, Svetlana grabbed his hand and pulled him closer. Mickey heard Ian laugh.

            Mickey brought his hands down on Svet’s hips, tried to move in rhythm with her. He felt like a statue next to her or an unoiled suit of armour. She towered over him in her heels, her hair falling down to touch his forehead and tickle his scalp. Her smile shone in the multi-coloured lights.

            “You need to move your hips.”

            Mickey shocked at the feel of Ian’s lips against his ear, his breath hot. Ian’s hands slotted just above Svetlana’s and his body pressed up against Mickey’s back. Mickey felt hot and cold all over, suddenly sweating, like he was having a panic attack. But he wasn’t. His heart raced, but in a good way as Ian swayed his hips against Mickey’s, tried to get him to loosen up a little. He whispered instructions in Mickey’s ear, but Mickey caught none of them over the music and the blood pounding in his ears. Svetlana backed off, but not before turning Mickey around to face Ian.

            Ian’s smile lit up his face, made his eyes glow neon in the club lights. Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey’s neck and pulled him closer, so close his breath heated Mickey’s face. Their hips moved together, a slow roll that sent shivers up and down Mickey’s body. He closed his eyes for a moment. Their noses pressed together.

            Ian’s motions stuttered slightly as he shifted his stance. He got a leg between Mickey’s knees and started to roll his hips again. The thick muscle of his thigh rubbed across Mickey’s crotch, hitched his breath. Ian’s teeth scraped down Mickey’s chin. He grinded his length along Mickey’s thigh, changed his roll to more of an up and down motion as he held Mickey close.

            Mickey’s mind was gone. Whether it was the alcohol or the body heat or just Ian, Mickey couldn’t think straight anymore. All there was was the uncomfortable pressure in his jeans and Ian’s breath across his lips and their jeans rubbing together. Mickey wanted to bring their lips together, wanted to pull Ian into the bathroom and go for it. When he looked up into Ian’s eyes, he could see that he felt the same way.

            “We need to go,” Mickey said.

            “What?”

            “Go!” Mickey shouted. He bit his lip around a groan as Ian shifted impossibly closer to him, then placed a hand on Ian’s chest to push him back. “Let’s get out of here.”

            Ian nodded and grabbed Mickey’s hand to pull him out of the crowd. By the time they got to the stairwell, Svetlana had caught up to them. “What are you doing? Mickey. We cannot leave yet. Mickey!”

            Mickey turned on her, his fingers pulling out of Ian’s grasp. He could see the fear in her eyes, the genuine worry for what the fuck he was doing. His heart skipped a beat or two and his racing thoughts stuttered to a halt. He was half hard in his jeans and his fingers were scrambling to hold onto Ian and the world felt distorted in the blue light. Svetlana raised an eyebrow at him.

            “Ian.” Mickey squeezed his fingers, then let go. “Go out the back. I’ll see you at home.”

            Hurt flashed through Ian’s eyes, so fast Mickey almost didn’t catch it, but then he nodded. He was gone a moment later.

            Mickey took Svetlana’s hands and kissed her knuckles. He opened his mouth to explain, but she shushed him. “Out front door. Look less fucked.”

            Mickey might have protested had she not immediately pulled him out the front doors. She clung to him like she was drunk herself and he managed to look up at her with a little bit of love in his eyes. She smiled back at him, lowered her lips to his in a messy, sloppy, disgusting kiss. Mickey kissed her back. They stumbled towards their waiting car, waved to the paparazzi, and then ducked into the backseat like they were going to go at as soon as the door was closed.

            But once the door was closed, Svetlana slapped Mickey across the face.

            “What the fuck?” Mickey said.

            “What are you doing?” Svetlana snapped. “Thought I was very clear. No Ian. Bad idea.”

            “Yeah. You and everyone else were perfectly clear.”

            “Then why you do this?”

            Mickey shook his head. He didn’t really have an answer, slumped in the backseat, half drunk, his erection flagging, his girlfriend yelling at him. But Svetlana kept staring, silently demanding an answer.

            “I like the guy, okay? He’s an old friend. It’s the least I can do.”

            “Fuck an old friend?”

            “I’m not fucking him.”

            “But you want to.”

            Mickey opened his mouth to protest, but closed it quick. There was no point lying to Svetlana; she knew him too well for it to work. Plus they were fake anyways. She didn’t have a right to be mad at him. And there was no way Mickey could pull off the “we’re just friends” routine when she’d seen them grinding in the club.

            “Don’t humiliate me like this,” Svetlana said. “You want to come out? Be with orange boy? Then we break-up first. On my terms.”

            “I’m not going to come out.”

            “You will if you keep this up.”

            Mickey nodded. “I won’t bring him out anymore, okay? It’s safe. We’re safe.”

            Svetlana shook her head at him. “You fucking idiot.”

            Mickey couldn’t really disagree.


	8. Chapter 8

Ian somehow got back to the apartment before Mickey did. Maybe they went to drop off Svetlana first. Ian didn’t really know. All he knew was that his heart was pounding, his blood was rushing downwards, and he couldn’t think. He didn’t want to think.

            He paced the apartment nervously. As he waited for Mickey to come home, his mind went to all the worst places. What if Mickey had freaked out? What if he had decided to spend the night with Svetlana or otherwise not come home? What if Mickey came home and immediately yelled at Ian for such a stupid risk? What if everything went to hell the second he walked through the door?

            Ian considered doing the rest of the coke he’d bought while waiting to go to the club. He’d only snorted a little bit, enough to keep steady. The rest sat heavy in his coat pocket. Part of him felt bad for bringing it into the apartment after Mickey had told him not to. Part of him just wanted to snort the rest of it so it wouldn’t be in the apartment anymore, so that the evidence would be gone.

            Before he could make a decision on whether or not to take it, the door opened. Ian froze. He stared as Mickey closed the door, took off his coat, and then turned to look at Ian. Then they were both still, staring at each other, neither quite sure what to do. Ian knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to kiss Mickey. He wanted to back him into the door and kiss his neck and then sink to his knees and finally figure out what Mickey tasted like. But he didn’t know where Mickey was anymore. Was he still in the club? Could he feel Ian’s hands on him? Or had he come back to Earth? Once again so deep in the fucking closet he wouldn’t even admit it to himself?

            “Hey,” Mickey said.

            “Hi.”

            Mickey looked away. “So, you can dance?”

            A smile flickered over Ian’s lips. “Did it professionally for a few years.”

            Ian could have sworn Mickey blushed, but it was hard to tell. Without the lights on, it was almost as dark as in the club. Mickey looked back at him, his lips pursed hard. “Think you could teach me?” Mickey said.

            “To dance?” Ian licked his lips and took a step forward. “Not sure you want to do my kind of dancing.”

            “What kind of dancing is that?”

            “Stripping. And lap dances.”

            Mickey laughed. He stepped forward too until the distance between them was almost non-existent. Ian placed a hand on Mickey’s cheek, stroked down his neck, down the buttons of his shirt. Mickey looked up at him with wide eyes, his bottom lip bitten, the picture of drunken innocence.

            “I could still teach you,” Ian said.

            “To lap dance?”

            “Mhmm.” Ian pushed Mickey back. “Get a chair.”

            Mickey grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and placed it in the middle of the floor.

            “Sit down,” Ian said.

            Mickey raised an eyebrow.

            “Can’t teach without demonstrating.”

            For a second, Ian thought he’d pushed too far. But then Mickey flopped back into the chair and gave Ian a lazy, challenging look. Ian’s smile widened. He took a step forward and placed a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, nudged his legs open with his knees.

            “You know the rules, right?” Ian said.

            “Never had a lap dance before.”

            Ian hummed and then moved to straddle the chair. He lowered himself down onto Mickey softly but didn’t let their bodies touch more than they had to for him to stay upright. He grabbed the back of Mickey’s neck for support. “Rule one: no touching.”

            “You’re touching me.”

            “But it doesn’t go both ways.” Ian lowered his head to brush his nose against Mickey’s, blew his breath over Mickey’s lips. He rocked his hips forward to rub their crotches together. “Rule two: once you get hard, the dance is over.”

            “That a real rule?” Mickey met his eyes with a smirk.

            “Usually it means it’s time to take the guy to a back room, but in this case it means we stop.”

            “You’re not going to take me to a back room? You don’t want to?”

            Ian rubbed his thumb across Mickey’s lips. “You’re drunk.”

            Mickey whined his disapproval.

            “Maybe we’ll wave rule two,” Ian whispered. “Maybe.” He stood and paused for a moment with his crotch in Mickey’s face. Then he shifted to put one foot on the chair between Mickey’s spread legs. He rested his hand on the back of the chair and rocked forward.

            Mickey ducked out of the way and laughed. “This a real move? Who the fuck wants a dick in their face?”

            “Guys who suck cock.” Ian put his hand back on Mickey’s neck to hold him in place as he gyrated.

            Mickey shivered with giggles, but eventually looked up at Ian with a smile on his face. “If you’re trying to get me hard, this isn’t going to do it.”

            “What? You don’t want my cock down your throat?” Ian stepped down, let his smile fall. He ran his hands up Mickey’s thighs, spread his fingers out so his thumbs ran along the inseam of his jeans. He paused just before he got to Mickey’s crotch, appreciated the way Mickey spread his legs in anticipation. Ian bent down to dip his head into the space between his legs and got close enough that he was sure Mickey could feel his breath. “Think that wouldn’t turn you on? Having your lips spread around me? My cock at the back of your throat?”

            “Fuck, Ian.”

            Ian moved up and slid his nose along the buttons of Mickey’s shirt. He bent his body into Mickey as he rose, skidded his lips over Mickey’s neck, and paused when he could look him in the eyes. “What, Mick? What do you want?”

            Mickey’s breath hitched. “Ian.”

            “You want me?” Ian pressed a kiss to Mickey’s neck. “You want me inside you?”

            “Fuck.”

            “You want me to fuck you?”

            Mickey closed his eyes and when they opened again, they were wide and scared. Ian stilled his movements. He was in the perfect position to grind down on Mickey, but he didn’t want to freak him out anymore. Then Mickey closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes. I want you to fuck me. Please.” He sniffed and a tear rolled down his cheek.

            Ian caught it on his thumb. “Mick. Look at me.”

            Mickey opened his eyes. They were red and blotchy and wet.

            “Fuck.” Ian took a step back and ran a hand through his hair. Emotion welled up in him fast, too fast. Tears pricked at his eyes and he turned away from Mickey for a long moment, forced himself to breathe. “Fuck.”

            “No, Ian. It’s fine. Please. Just... come back here.”

            Ian shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Mickey again, not right now. Maybe he had known he was pushing him too hard. Maybe he had known the lap dance and the grinding and showing up at the bar at all had been a bad idea. Maybe even asking to stay here had been a terrible fucking idea.

            “Ian?”

            “I can’t. Mick... I’m so sorry.”

            The chair scraped against the floor. “What are you talking about?”

            Ian turned to look at Mickey. More tears had escaped his eyes and fallen down his face. Ian cupped his cheeks and leaned in so their foreheads knocked together. He held Mickey tight, right there, for a long moment. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I shouldn’t be pushing you.”

            “Ian, I’m dead serious. I want you.”

            “I know.” Ian pressed their lips together in a quick, quiet kiss. He sniffed. “But you’re not ready.”

            “I am. I’m ready. Let’s just fucking go for it.”

            “And then what happens in the morning, huh?” Ian dropped Mickey’s face and stepped back. “What happens when you’re sober and you wake up naked in bed with me? What happens when I roll over and try to kiss you? Are you telling me all of that is going to be fine with you? Are you saying you’ll just accept it and keep going? You’re not going to freak out or kick me out of bed or make me sleep on the couch the next night?”

            “No, no. Ian—”

            “You’re gonna hurt me, Mick. And it’s not gonna be your fault because you’ve grown up in two of the most toxic cultures you could have. And I get that it’s hard for you. And I get that you have an image to protect. But I can’t be your dirty little secret while you figure it all out. I can’t be pushing you to be okay with something you’re not okay with. You need to get there on your own.”

            Mickey just stared.

            Ian wiped the tears from his own eyes. “I’m gonna go.”

            “Ian, wait.” Mickey grabbed Ian’s wrist as he passed. “Come on. Just... sleep on the couch. Please.”

            “I shouldn’t even be here.”

            “What?”

            “I’m high, Mick.” Ian slipped out of Mickey’s grip as it loosened, a look of absolute horror on the other man’s face. Ian stepped towards the door and forced a shrug. “I broke your rules. I pushed you too hard. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Mick.”

            Ian got out the door before Mickey could say anything else. He forgot his coat and the drugs in it, but that didn’t matter. He could find a homeless shelter for the night or brave the freezing cold. Pushing the elevator button, he started to cry in earnest. His whole body shook and he leaned up against a wall for support.

            He hated when his dreams came true. How many times had he imagined Mickey Milkovich willing under his hands? How many times had he wanted to kiss Mickey and have Mickey kiss him back? How many times had he jacked off to the idea of Mickey begging him to fuck him?

            The world existed solely to fuck him up. Ian was sure of that.


	9. Chapter 9

Mickey didn’t sleep well that night, if he slept at all. He woke groggy at six a.m. and immediately listened for Ian shifting in the living room before he remembered Ian had walked out. Less remembered and more came to terms with. Whatever. Ian had never stayed away for more than one night in a row, so that night he would be back on the couch and Mickey could wake to his small, soft noises tomorrow.

            Mickey got up and went about his day. Breakfast, auditions, meetings, filming, late lunch with Svet, more meetings, a long negotiation with his agent, a radio interview, dinner in the car, and an appearance at a local bar in danger of being shut down – but judging by the crowd, Mickey sincerely doubted that was the real reason he’d been asked to appear.

            He got back to the apartment late, late enough that he expected to see Ian on the couch. But no such luck. He checked the bathroom and his bedroom, but there was no one there. The only sign Ian had been back at all was that his jacket was missing from the rack by the door along with the change he’d left on the coffee table. At least Ian was alive, Mickey knew that.

            He settled in for another sleepless night. Right before he crawled into bed, he sent Ian a quick text saying, _come home_ and sent Fiona a text asking if Ian was with her. He waited five minutes for either of them to reply, got nothing, and rolled back into bed.

            Throughout the night, whenever he got bored of lying with his eyes closed, he checked his phone. Fiona replied sometime after two saying she hadn’t seen him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t somewhere in the house. Ian didn’t reply at all. Mickey sent him another text around four, asked him to say whether he was alive or not and still got nothing.

            He rolled out of bed exhausted the next morning but simply brewed a large pot of coffee and drank as much of it as he could before the car came. On the way to the breakfast place – the producers wanted to pitch him the idea for the Disney show’s spin-off before he officially declined – he sent Ian another text message. _I’m not mad. You made the right choice. Please come back._

Mickey stared at the screen, waiting for the typing bubbles to pop up. Nothing. He bit his bottom lip and started to scroll back through their texts. All of them were simple conversations – _are you coming home tonight? yes, do you want Chinese for dinner? sure, don’t make so much fucking noise if you come in at three in the morning. fine_ – but Mickey read each one with care. He had no idea when Ian’s one word answers had started to mean so much to him, but they had. After last night, he wondered when Ian had started to mean so much to him at all. Maybe Mandy had been right. Maybe he’d loved him all along.

            Mickey managed to get through the meeting with the producers without signing away his life again, even when they asked if maybe he’d do a reunion movie instead of a new show. He told them he’d think about it but as soon as he was out the door called his agent to say that no, no, no, he wasn’t going back ever.

            For once, Mickey didn’t have a lot to do all day long. He sat on the couch and watched more of their show. If he tried hard enough, he thought he could see the exact moment Ian had started to look at him differently. If he stopped being in denial, he could see the exact moment he started to look back differently.

            He actually slept that night, somewhat peacefully. When he woke the next morning to no Ian, his heart didn’t sink as much. It had only been a week. Ian had only been back in his life a week. Mickey could let go of that. He’d managed to let go of seven years of friendship without trying that much at all. He could forget about a week.

            Mandy called late that evening and a couple minutes into her monologue about how the Hamilton cast had absolutely _soaked_ her in champagne, she asked, “How’s Ian?”

            “Gone.”

            “You kicked him out?”

            Mickey considered lying to her. After all, she was miles away and had no way of knowing what really happened. But in the end, he didn’t. “No. We had a... fight and he left and he hasn’t been back for a couple of days.”

            Mandy was silent for a moment. “A fight about what?”

            “We were drunk. I don’t know.”

            “Mick,” Mandy said, her voice slow. “Look, you’re gonna be mad, but your publicist didn’t tell you this for a reason. And that reason is, it’s not a big deal.”

            “What’s not a big deal?”

            “A couple days ago, there were some blurry club videos of you grinding on someone.” Mandy paused. “No one recognized Ian, thank god, and quite a few people thought it might be a girl because the lighting in that place was shit, and your publicist got them all taken down in a couple of hours, but...” Mandy took a deep breath. “Tell me. When you say you had a fight with Ian... did you hook up with him and then throw him out?”

            “No!”

            “Mick.”

            “Honest. Fuck, Mandy.” Mickey’s heart beat hard in his chest, but he swallowed it. If it had been any real scandal, he would have heard of it immediately and had paparazzi camped outside his front door – more than usual. “That’s not what happened.”

            “Then what was the fight about?”

            “He... we...” Mickey chewed on his bottom lip. “I think I might be gay.”

            “No shit, Sherlock.”

            “Thanks, Mands.”

            “Sorry,” she said. “Just, I could’ve told you that when you were about six or seven.”

            “Fuck off.”

            “What happened?”

            Mickey shook his head. He sunk into the couch cushions and managed to resist the urge to bury his nose in them and smell Ian. “He was showing me how to lap dance and we were flirting and I told him... I told him I wanted him and he freaked out. Said I wasn’t ready for it and that he couldn’t do it and he left.”

            “ _He_ freaked out?”

            Mickey bit his tongue. “I might have cried.”

            “Shit.”

            “He hasn’t been home since and he hasn’t been answering my texts and I think he’s just gone.” Mickey couldn’t stop his voice from cracking on the last word. Tears pricked at his eyes but he blinked them back.

            “I’m sorry,” Mandy said. There was a long silence, then she added, “You want me to set you up with someone? There’s a ton of gay guys out here.”

            “Fuck off.” Mickey laughed.

            Mandy launched back into one of her stories as Mickey lay down on the couch, listening to her. He fell asleep to the sound of her voice and the smell of Ian on the pillows.

 

When a week had passed without Ian, Mickey headed down to the diner he’d gotten Ian the job at. He figured he owed the manager an apology for his shitty recommendation and he probably needed to reassure the guy that he wasn’t about to back out of his promises.

            As he walked down the street, he waved to a few fans and smiled at a guy who took his picture, but was relatively unbothered. When he came through the front door of the diner, the hostess looked mildly shocked, but quickly regained her composure to ask if he wanted a table for one. He asked her to bring him back to the manager and she did.

            Mickey knocked on the office door and stepped in. Bill didn’t even look up from his computer.

            “Hey,” Mickey said.

            Bill glanced his way. “Oh, hi.”

            “I just wanted to come by and apologize.”

            “Apologize?”

            “For asking you to take Ian on,” Mickey said. “I thought he’d last a lot longer than a week before bailing. But don’t worry. I’m still going to do the promotions and everything we talked about—”

            “What are you on about?” Bill looked up with genuine confusion.

            Mickey paused. “Ian. You know? The dishwasher I sent over?”

            “Yeah. What about him?”

            “He hasn’t been here in a week.”

            “He’s here almost every day,” Bill said. He turned back to his computer. “Never misses a shift. Picks up all the dropped shifts. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            Mickey’s heart skipped a beat and then crashed painfully into his stomach. All right. So Ian had only ditched him. Something about the information should have been comforting – Ian wasn’t too fucked to go into work, he was still trying, and he’d been down the street almost every day – but in reality it just made Mickey sad.

            “Does he work today?” Mickey asked.

            “Four ‘til close.”

            “Thanks.” Mickey checked his phone as he backed out of the office. It was only ten, which meant six hours until Ian came by, and Mickey had appearance to make, interviews to do, and a date with Svetlana. However, if Ian got off at midnight, he might be able to catch him then.

            Mickey walked back to his apartment, got into his driver’s car, and went about his day distracted. He kept checking the time at the worst moments – right as someone asked him a question or when he was supposed to be acting interested in something. His agent called at three to tell him he better get back on his game or he’d be working well into the night. So he put his phone away and tried a little harder.

            Still it wasn’t until ten o’clock that night that he was dropped back at the apartment. He considered going straight to see Ian – he could go into the back and talk to him there – but maybe that wasn’t the best idea. So he bummed around the apartment for an hour, then put on his winter jacket, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, and headed down to the diner.

            He settled into the back alley between the diner and another apartment building. Pulling out a cigarette, he lit it and let acrid smoke billow out of his lips. He checked the time. Forty-five minutes until the diner closed. And Ian might stay after to help with clean-up.

            Mickey considered sending Ian a text, but if the other man really was avoiding him, it was probably better to catch him by surprise. So Mickey stood shivering in the cold, smoking more than he had since he was a teenager, and checking his phone every five minutes. His fingers started to go numb twenty minutes in, but he refused to walk into the diner and sit down just in case Ian spotted him.

            Thirty minutes in, Svetlana called to coordinate schedules and that distracted him for ten minutes before she hung up with a huff. She was probably annoyed that the shots she’d made at Mickey for having a “boyfriend” hadn’t gotten anywhere with him. But what did it matter to Mickey what Svetlana knew? She couldn’t out him without ruining her own reputation too.

            Twenty minutes after midnight, the back door opened. Mickey straightened against the wall as light and laughter pooled out into the darkness. Ian stood between two other people, a smile bright on his face, clearly in the middle of telling a story. But he stopped the minute he saw Mickey.

            “Go on without me?” he said. The two girls he was with nodded and headed off. Ian stuffed his hands into his pockets and didn’t step any closer to Mickey, didn’t say a word.

            “Want a cigarette?” Mickey said.

            “Sure.”

            Mickey handed him one and then leaned in to light it. Ian leaned back as soon as the tip caught and breathed in a long drag. The smoke pushed out of his lips in a long, clean line. Mickey looked away from him to focus on his own cigarette burning down towards his fingertips. He took a small drag and puffed it out in short breaths.

            Ian settled against the wall a foot or so away from Mickey. Once half his cigarette had burned down, he said, “You stalking me now?”

            “Came by to say sorry for giving Bill a shit employee,” Mickey said. “Didn’t know the only person you ditched was me.”

            “Come on.”

            “Whatever.”

            Ian sighed and turned to look at Mickey. “You know I made the right choice.”

            “I meant what I said. I’m not mad. I just thought you were fucking dead.”

            “Believe it or not, I can take of myself. Have been for years.”

            “Yeah.”

            Ian put the cigarette back to his lips and blew the smoke away from Mickey. Mickey was too distracted watching his lips to realize his own was nearly gone. Sparks touched his fingers and he swore, dropped it before stamping it out with his boot. Ian smiled.

            “Fuck off,” Mickey said.

            “I’ve been trying to get clean,” Ian said.

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah. I went to a couple of NA meeting with Fiona and—”

            “Fiona said she hadn’t seen you.”

            Ian looked down. “I might have told her not to tell you.”

            Mickey brushed a hand across his lips. “Okay. Yeah. Whatever. I get it, man. I’m annoying as fuck and you’d rather do things your own way. And it’s fine if you never want to see me again, but don’t just... disappear like a fucking ghost.”

            “I don’t... Mick, I never said that I didn’t want to see you again.”

            “Then where the fuck were you?” Mickey snapped. He turned the full force of his glare on Ian. “It’s been a fucking week. You didn’t text, you didn’t call, you didn’t come home.”

            “Your couch isn’t my home.”

            Mickey opened his mouth to disagree and then shut it quickly. He looked down at his feet. “I just wanted to know you were safe.”

            “And I am.”

            “You could’ve fucking told me.”

            “I didn’t want you waiting at the phone for me. I didn’t want you thinking I was going to come back to your place and sleep on your couch again.”

            “You won’t?”

            Ian forced a smile, but it was weak. “It’s a bad idea, Mick.”

            “Why?”

            “Because one of these days my resolve is going to break and I’m not going to be able to stop myself. We’re going to go way past kissing and grinding and we’re not going to be able to go back from that.”

            Mickey forced himself to look up into Ian’s eyes. His heart was in his throat, making it hard to speak, but he managed, “What if I don’t wanna go back?”

            “We’re better off as friends.”

            “Why?”

            Ian touched his forehead to Mickey’s. “Because.” His voice dropped to little more than a whisper, the flutter of his breath hot on Mickey’s lips. “We’re too different, Mick. I’ve been out since I was ten and you’ll probably never leave the closet. I’m a drug-addled former child star and you’re a clean action movie star. I have about twelve bucks to my name right now and you’ve got, what? A couple hundred thousand in the bank? Face it. We’re from different worlds.”

            “We’re from the same fucking world. We’re from the same fucking street.”

            Ian smiled. “Maybe we used to be. If you’d let me kiss you when we were fifteen... who knows how things could have gone? But now? Now it’s not gonna work.”

            Mickey felt the first tear hit his cheek, but he was too close to Ian to wipe it off. “I don’t care,” he whispered. “I don’t give a fuck, Ian. You want to come back to the apartment coked up? Do it. You want to out me? Go for it. I want you. I don’t care about anything else.”

            “God, I wish that was true.”

            “It is!”

            “So if it fucked up your life? If all of a sudden nothing was the same and you couldn’t get a part for the life of you and all your money was spent on my drug habit and we had to move back to the Southside, you would live with that? You would just fucking be fine with it?”

            “Yes. Yes.” Mickey closed the space between their lips with a soft kiss. Then he opened his mouth to press in between Ian’s lips, kept it soft and light, so not to spook him. “Ian. Please. I’ll do anything.”

            Ian exhaled and pulled away, a sad smile on his face. “Let’s not do this to each other.”

            “Do what?”

            Ian reached up to caress Mickey’s cheek. “Fall in love when we know it’s not going to work.”

            “Stop saying that.”

            “It’s true.”

            “You don’t fucking know that, Ian.” Mickey batted away Ian’s hand and stepped back. “You’re just too fucking scared and I thought it was my job to be scared. It’s my life that’s on the line, isn’t it? What the fuck do you have to risk? Your life? Your family? Does anyone give half a shit? Or would dating me just make your life exponentially better?”

            Ian’s expression hardened. “Is that how you see me? I’m just some fucking charity case to you and you’re doing the world a favour by stepping off your high horse to date me?”

            “If the shoe fucking fits.”

            Ian tossed his cigarette to the ground. “You know what, Mick? You were right before when you said I wanted you the fuck out of my life for good.”

            “Fine. Go back to your life before me. Just remember it was always shit without me.”

            “You think you’ve been nothing but good for me, Mickey? Fuck that. You were always the worst thing in my life. And if I stay, you’ll continue to be. You’ll treat me like a fucking child that needs to be taken care of and keep me locked up in your apartment as your little secret. If I go home with you right now, you’ll never come out of the fucking closet and you’ll never respect me and you’ll never, ever come to terms with who you are.”

            “Oh. So you’re doing this for me?”

            “When have I ever done anything not for you?”

            Mickey shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. How about when you went fucking insane after the show ended even though I begged you to keep your shit together? How about when I texted you audition after audition after audition and you went to fucking none of them? How about when I called Fiona to tell her I could get you in for help and she said you laughed at the idea?”

            “You punched me in the fucking face.”

            “I was scared.”

            “And you always will be, Mick.” Ian took another step back. “I’ve got to go before Fiona thinks I’m on a bender and locks all the doors.”

            “Run away then. See if I fucking care.”

            “Bye, Mick. Nice knowing you.”

            “Fuck you too.” Mickey spit on the ground and then stepped back. He tried to turn, to walk away, but he felt glued to the spot watching Ian go. His heart hammered in his chest and he felt the sudden urge to puke. Instead, he sunk to the ground and rested his head against his knees. After a moment, he lit a cigarette and let the nicotine burn away his tears.


	10. Chapter 10

Ian entered the Gallagher house cold, empty, and with frozen tears spotting his cheeks. He was pretty sure he’d just made the worst mistake of his entire life. Worse than getting addicted to coke, worse than trying to kiss Mickey at the Christmas party, worse than throwing his entire life away. He had just well and truly fucked up everything.

            “Ian! I was starting to get worried and I thought...” Fiona trailed off as she entered the kitchen and got a good look at him. Her tired expression brightened into horror and she stepped forward to wipe tears off his face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

            Ian wrapped his arms around her and hugged her hard. She returned the pressure, kissed the side of his head as she whispered platitudes. After a minute, she ushered him into a chair and started to fuss about the kitchen to make hot chocolate. She set the mug down in front of him, sat down, and stared at him for a long moment without saying anything. Ian wrapped his hands around the mug and breathed in the steam.

            “You sober?” she asked.

            Ian nodded. “Just got back from work.”

            “Okay.” She drummed her fingers against the table. “Bad day?”

            “Normal.”

            “You wanna tell me what happened?”

            “You know how I was staying at Mickey’s for a while?”

            “Yeah.”

            Ian took a sharp breath. “Do you remember... why I stopped talking to him?”

            Fiona almost laughed. “Yeah. I think I remember you crying in bed for a week because of it.” She nudged Ian’s shoulder. “You’re not going to bury yourself in bed over him again, are you? Because I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, no guy is worth your tears.”

            Ian smiled. “Thanks.”

            “No worries.”

            “But this is... more than that. We were... he picked me up off the street and took me in and I don’t know why. Maybe he just felt guilty that we were in different places, but... I don’t know.” Ian took a sip of the hot chocolate. “Maybe I thought he wanted to be with me and I pushed too hard and...”

            “He kicked you out?”

            “No. I left.”

            “Why?”

            “Because it’s one thing to joke with Mickey and be his friend again, and completely different to kiss him and have him beg me to fuck him,” Ian said. He kept his eyes down, not wanting to see Fiona’s shock or whatever other emotions might be on her face. “I thought I could do it. I really thought, this time I’m just going to be his friend. But I couldn’t. I went for it whenever I had the opportunity and then he had to fucking go and actually want me and... I couldn’t handle it. It was supposed to be a stupid school boy crush. Not this.”

            “This?”

            Ian swallowed hard. “I think I love him.”

            Fiona reached over to rub Ian’s shoulders and pulled him into a one-armed hug. “Of course you love him. Mickey’s always been in your life. He was the first person you really cared about that way and the first person to ever break your heart. I don’t think that ever really goes away.”

            “But what now? Do I just not talk to him ever again? Cut all the ties and pretend he doesn’t exist?” Ian scrunched up his face to stop the tears. “Because I don’t know if I can do that. I basically stomped on his fucking heart tonight and all I want to do is go back to his apartment and kiss him and apologize and _beg_ to be his stupid on-the-down-low boyfriend.”

            “You’ve got to decide what you want,” Fiona said. “Is it Mickey? Is that the one thing you want in life? Or do you want to be able to live _your_ life too?”

            “I don’t know.”

            Fiona kissed him on the top of the head. “Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

            Ian was almost certain that was a lie, but he nodded anyways. Fiona left the kitchen and Ian sat there with his hot chocolate, sipping it intermittently and checking his phone every seven seconds. After half an hour passed, he texted Mickey, _I’m sorry._

             He stared at his phone until he finished his drink. Right as he was about to turn it off and go to bed, he got a call from an unknown number. “Hello?” he said.

            “Hello, is this Ian Gallagher?”

            Ian braced himself for a telemarketer or a creepy where-are-they-now reporter. “Yes.”

            “Wonderful. I know it’s late, but if I could just take up a minute of your time and then I’ll let you get back to sleep. I would greatly appreciate it.”

            “Sure,” Ian said. He rubbed his eyes and checked the kitchen clock. Just before two in the morning. “What do you want?”

            “My name is Connor Hills and I’m the assistant to executive producer Michael Manning down here at the Disney office.”

            Ian pinched himself to make sure he was awake. Apparently, he was. “Okay.”

            “I’ve been tasked with figuring out how to get a project we’re working on off the ground here and I just realized that we’ve been ignoring a very important piece of the puzzle: you. So what do you say? Do you want to come on board?”

            “On board what?”

            “The remake. Or movie. We’re still in negotiations.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            Connor scrambled with something on his end, made a lot of noises, and started cursing. A minute later, he came back on saying, “Sorry about that. Small mishap. I see here that we haven’t, in fact, been able to contact you before, so I apologize for the confusion. We here at the Disney offices are planning on remaking your old show, _Boy Babysitters._ You know, a ten years later look at the life. If it becomes a TV series, you’ll be asked to do regular guest appearances and if it’s a movie, it’ll revolve around yours and Mickey’s characters lives as they are now. We’d love if we could get your confirmation that you’re available and on board for the project. Of course, if you’d rather have us contact your agent—”

            “Have you spoken to Mickey?”

            “Er, yes. Several times. He’s been... adamant about not wanting to be part of the project, but we’re confident we can get him on board.”

            Ian smiled and settled back into his chair. His mind whirred – it was a lot to take in at two a.m. – but he couldn’t seem to slow down his thought process. “So, you’re saying that your brilliant plan to get Mickey on board was to get me on board first?”

            “You two were always very close, and—”

            “We had a huge falling out.”

            More papers rummaged. “Yes. Yes, I see that noted here, but I thought, perhaps, being reunited after so many years apart might be fun for the two of you. Get back into your old dynamic, your old stomping grounds... what do you say?”

            “Did you run this by your boss? Calling me?”

            Silence.

            “Because they probably didn’t call me for a reason,” Ian said.

            “Mr. Manning said anything goes as long as I can sign Mickey.”

            Ian considered the offer. On one hand, it would probably make Mickey even angrier at him. On the other, it was an excuse to see Mickey every day for a few months. And as far as ways to make up went, it was a hell of a lot better than apologizing. He just wasn’t sure it would work and then this poor assistant would have him signed to a movie that the producers wouldn’t make without Mickey.

            “I’m in,” Ian said.

            Connor practically whooped with joy. Then he started to list off dates and contracts and a million other things that needed to be done before Ian gently reminded him that it was two in the morning and he needed to go to sleep. They hung up – Connor promising to call tomorrow – and Ian stared at his phone for a little longer.

            Mickey still hadn’t replied to his text – had probably gone to sleep – but Ian sent him another message anyways. _Might have done something stupid. Call me._

            He knew that might worry Mickey, but if Mickey was worried about him he might be more likely to forgive and forget. They’d both said shitty things to each other – shitty, true things – but they could get over it for the sake of a project. They’d gotten over a lot of things because they were about to go into scenes together. Mickey’d gotten over Ian poking into Mickey’s family life – why was he so scared of Terry? what did Terry do to Mandy? why didn’t his brothers do a damn thing about it? And Ian had gotten over Mickey hurling gay slurs at him and saying homophobic shit. Maybe it’d been easier for Ian because he’d been in puppy love. But he didn’t think that made it any different this time around.

            Ian left his phone on for the night and stalked up the stairs to go to sleep. The bedroom was oddly empty with just him and Liam in it. He was used to a crowd of four in the small space, Carl’s soft snores, Lip’s sleep-talking, and Liam waking every few minutes to cry. Now both Carl and Lip were gone – Carl to the army and Lip to a new bedroom – and Liam wasn’t as restless of a sleeper anymore. The Gallagher house was slowly getting quieter and Ian wasn’t sure that he liked it.


	11. Chapter 11

Mickey woke to two texts from Ian. The first was innocent enough and he brushed it off. He’d done everything for that no-good, ungrateful, charity case. A simple apology wasn’t going to be enough to push him right over the edge and into lala land again. But Mickey felt his heart start to pound as he read the second text. His fingers wavered over the letters to text back, to ask what was wrong, what had happened. He had the sudden, flashing image of Ian in the hospital, blood everywhere, the Gallagher bath tub stained red...

            Before he could form the words to reply or even decide to simply call Fiona instead, his phone started ringing in his hands. His agent. He picked up with a sigh and said, “What? I didn’t miss a coffee date this morning, did I?”

            “No, but I thought you’d like to know that Mr. Manning wants to meet with you again.”

            “Tell him to fuck off. I’m not doing his stupid movie.”

            “He says he has new information that might change your mind.”

            Mickey highly doubted that, but he did owe the man his career. If he was going to reject him again, the least he could do was let him take him out again. “Fine,” he said. “When’s he want to meet?”

            “Lunch. At one.”

            “Whatever.” Mickey hung up the phone and pulled himself out of bed. He shot a quick text to Ian – _tell me you’re alive_ – and then jumped into the shower. Warm water flowed over him, relaxed the tense muscles of his body. He took his time – lunch was now the first thing on his schedule for the day, since it was supposed to be his day off – and hummed under his breath. He only got out when he heard his phone buzz.

            _Alive,_ Ian said. _Thought I told you to call?_

_Texted to make sure you’re alive. Not to accept your apology, jackass._

_Fine, see you later._

Mickey scrunched up his face. He wanted to text back asking what that meant – did Ian want to come by the apartment to drop off his key? – but he thought that might be being a little too friendly. So he tossed his phone down, got dressed, and turned on the TV to sports highlights.

            Mandy called to help him waste his time, but he didn’t tell her anything about the fight with Ian. As far as she was concerned, Ian was already out of his life for good. As far as Mickey was concerned, she wasn’t wrong in believing that. If he never saw that asshole again for as long as he lived – after whatever the hell he’d meant about seeing him again – then he’d live his life happy.

            He went down to wait for his driver at twenty minutes until one. He wasted five minutes playing Buzzfeed quizzes on his phone – including one that was “Which Mickey Milkovich character are you?” – and looked up just as the car arrived. He slid into the back, not paying much attention to the replacement driver or where they were going. He assumed Mr. Manning would pick one of the three restaurants he owned. And he was right.

            They pulled up in front of a restaurant too fancy for lunch, but that only meant they’d be alone if Mickey started yelling. Which, at this point in the negotiations, was completely likely. Mickey got out of the car and pushed through the glass door, told the hostess who he was there to see. She led him along the plush red carpets past mahogany tables towards a booth in the back.

            Mr. Manning rose to his feet as Mickey approached and offered his hand. “Mr. Milkovich. As always, a pleasure to see you.”

            “Mr. Manning.”

            “And you, of course, remember Mr. Gallagher?”

            Mickey looked into the booth, not quite believing his ears. And there Ian was, sitting like the picture of innocence, a bright smile on his face. Mickey curled in his bottom lip and met Mr. Manning’s eyes with a steely glare. “What the fuck,” he said, “is he doing here?”

            Mr. Manning’s prim composure faltered for only a second before he gestured for Mickey to sit down and then sat himself. Mickey stayed standing, arms crossed. Mr. Manning went on, completely unperturbed. “As you know, Mr. Milkovich, we are trying to produce a remake of your old show. Last night, we contacted Mr. Gallagher and he was more than happy to jump on board.”

            “Was he?”

            “Yes. I thought that perhaps, now that he’s with us, that you—”    

            “Last time I saw him, I punched him in the face,” Mickey said. He flickered his gaze towards Ian, waiting for the other man to contradict him, but Ian did nothing other than let his smile fall. Mickey focused on Mr. Manning. “And even if that wasn’t true, you really want a drug addict on the set of your kid’s movie? A gay one at that? You lowering your fucking Christian standards or what?”

            Mr. Manning swallowed uncomfortably. “Mr. Gallagher has agreed to weekly drug testing.”

            Mickey blinked. “And the gay thing? What? All of a sudden it’s not an issue? Because I remember you threatening to fucking fire him when he came out in season three.”

            “Times have changed, Mr. Milkovich.”

            “Cut the bullshit.” Mickey slid into the booth seat across from the two of them. “Tell me what’s really going on here. You bleeding money? There been a sudden upsurge in our DVD sales? Or is there another reason you’re so desperate to get my ass on the set of a TV movie that no one will fucking watch?” Mickey quirked an eyebrow. “You wanna level with me?”

            “You’ve made a name for yourself. We want you back.”

            “I do full frontal nudity and fuck on screen. Is that what you want?”

            Ian smothered a laugh.

            “And you, fuck you,” Mickey said. “What? Is this some kind of twisted revenge plot? Because you’re screwing yourself too. You’ll have to see my fucking face every goddamn day. You think about that?”

            Ian shrugged. “I said sorry.”

            “Well I didn’t fucking accept it, did I?”

            Ian rolled his eyes and then gave Mr. Manning a pointed look. To his credit, he took the hint and excused himself to the bathroom. Ian turned back to Mickey. “Look, you wanna help me, don’t you? And this movie is gonna make me money, gonna keep me clean for a couple of months at least.”

            “Thought you didn’t wanna be my charity case.”

            “I don’t.”

            “Oh, but when some big hotshot exec wants to take care of you, that’s all well and good? Am I just not fucking rich enough for you, you twink?”

            Ian’s smile burst over his face as his foot knocked against Mickey’s under the table. “This is me doing it on my own,” Ian said. “I just need your help to get started.”

            Mickey shifted his foot back. “I don’t fucking get you. You say I’m not ready, that we’re not going to work, and then you go out of your fucking way to get in my face again. Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone?”

            “We were friends once, Mick. Can’t we do that again?”

            Mickey stared at Ian for a long moment before he shook his head. “No, Ian, we can’t.” He slid out of the booth. “Tell Manning when he comes back that I said fuck you.” Then he turned to leave the restaurant.

            He felt hot and cold as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. For a second, the cold air made it hard for him to breathe and he thought for sure that now he was having a panic attack. But the sensation passed after a minute, he jumped into his car, and went back home.

            Several hours passed where he did nothing but drink spiked hot chocolate and watch more reruns of their show. It occurred to him sometime after he’d finished half a season that the best way to forget Ian Gallagher existed probably wasn’t watching his adolescent face scrunch up as he kissed girls. It was, however, an interesting drinking game to take a sip every time Ian looked like he’d rather get castrated than flirt with the girl standing in front of him.

            He ignored two calls from his agent. If it was important, she would text him or call more frequently than once an hour. However, when she called a third time he picked up with a tired and possibly drunken, “What?”

            “I need you to sign the contracts,” she said.

            Mickey closed his eyes tight. “What contracts?” He couldn’t remember being told he’d gotten any of the parts that he’d auditioned for recently, but maybe he’d blocked it out. He hadn’t exactly _liked_ any of the parts he’d auditioned for.

            “Mr. Manning had them drawn up and faxed over. They need your signature.”

            “What?”

            “For the movie.”

            Mickey resisted the urge to ask what the fuck she was talking about and instead rubbed his eyes. “I’m not doing that.”

            “He said you accepted at lunch today.”

            “I told him to fuck off at lunch.”

            “He got the impression you said everything was good to go. That you’d be happy to be back on set next month.”

            “Next month?” Mickey repeated. They had been trying to sign him for less than three weeks and all of a sudden they were ready to go into production next month? When had they written the script? When had they contacted the other actors they needed? When had they even decided to do a movie instead of TV series? Or did they just have both ready to go, already written, so they could bang out a crappy remake whenever the whim hit them? “It doesn’t fucking matter. I said no.”

            “Then why does he think you said yes?”

            “I don’t fucking know,” Mickey snapped. But he did. If he thought about it for even a second, he knew the exact reason Mr. Manning thought he had said yes to the project. Obviously Ian hadn’t given him the right message. Ian had pulled him into this mess just because he could.

            “I’ll tell him you’re backing out.”

            “No, don’t...” Mickey sighed. He bit his bottom lip, chewed until he tasted blood. He could feel his agent’s impatient silence through the buzzing of the phone line. “How much is he offering?”

            His agent said a number higher than Mickey had gotten on any other movie.

            “Tell him if he offers Ian the same, I’ll do it.”

            “You know Ian’s not at your level.”

            “Too fucking bad. We’re the stars of the show, aren’t we?” Mickey pushed off of the couch and headed into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. “Get his confirmation and I’ll be at your office to sign in half an hour. And send a different fucking driver.”

           

Mickey didn’t talk to Ian for a month. He ignored his texts and calls for a week and the other man had gotten the hint. Sure, Mickey had gone through with the contract negotiations and the pre-production and read the script without complaining about the bullshit dialogue, but he had refused to be in the same room with Ian until it was absolutely necessary. And that meant that until shooting started, there was no fucking reason he needed to see Ian Gallagher’s stupid fucking face.

            However, that meant that when Mickey woke up the morning of the first day of shooting, he was wholly unprepared to see Ian. He felt like in the last month his life had reverted completely back to normal – fake dating Svetlana, on different sets every day, going to auditions, falling asleep alone and exhausted – but now he was walking back into the room with the bomb. This time though, the countdown was even closer to zero.

            He could have – and almost did – back out of the movie several times. He could have black-balled Ian from the entire industry for pulling shit like that on him. He could have gotten Ian tossed off the movie if he wanted to. Instead, he’d gotten him equal pay and got his bullshit love interest cut from the script and hadn’t complained once about the fact that they were basically remaking _Daddy Daycare._ He did a lot for Ian, even if he hated the man’s guts.

            Mickey made his breakfast, scarfed it down, and then headed out to catch his ride. If he was ten minutes late, he did it on purpose. Make the half-assed set wait for Mickey Milkovich, the only real star in the place. He didn’t give a fuck what they thought of him. If they thought he was going to be the problem on set, he’d be the fucking problem. It’d be better than Ian being the problem because he couldn’t get clean.

            He gave into his nerves halfway there and called Mandy. She answered on the second ring.

            “You nervous?” she said.

            “Practically pissing myself.”

            She laughed. “Disney’s nothing compared to Warner Brothers. You’ll get through it.”

            “And Ian?”

            “At least he’s not on a set where they’d openly offer you drugs for a better performance,” she said.

            Mickey let out the breath he’d been holding. Mandy was right about that – any other company and he’d have to worry that Ian being clean was just an act for the tabloids. But not Disney. They stopped that shit at the door because their image was way more important to them than their actors. A shit load more important.

            “What are you going to say?” Mandy said. “You know, when interviewers start asking about you and Ian?”

            “Ian’s an old friend. He’s had his problems in the past, but so have I. And I know you’re all worried about the problems we’ve had with each other, but it’s been a long time since then. I’m excited to get back to work with him. He was always a pleasure to have on set and a good friend. I look forward to reconnecting.”

            Mandy snorted. “Who the fuck wrote that?”

            “My publicist. You like it?”

            “What do you say when they bring up Ian’s drug use?”

            “Ian’s been clean for a while now. What he needs is our love and support, not our judgement. I’m happy to say he’s looking better every day and is well on his way to being healthy.”

            “You haven’t even seen him.”

            “That’s not how show business works.” Mickey looked out the window to see how close they were, but it was still a ways to go. “What about you? You back on your feet yet?”

            Mandy made a non-committal noise. He knew she hated to talk about the fact that she’d been replaced – and by someone less famous – but he needed to know she was still all right. She’d never been great at saving money.

            “They’re rebooting _Rent_ off Broadway, so I’m auditioning this afternoon,” Mandy said. “Still waiting to hear back from The Lion King... but I’m good. It’s only been two weeks, right?”

            “Right.” Mickey wanted to say more, to reassure her, to promise everything would be okay, but he didn’t know if he could say it honestly. And he hated lying to Mandy. “Well, break a leg today, okay? And wish me luck on not fucking throttling Ian.”

            Mandy laughed. “You know, if you kill him, the press is going to be all over it. You’ll never hear the end of it. And you’re going to have to face interview after interview after interview where you said you were good friends and looking forward to working with him.”

            “I’ll make it look like an accident.”

            “Good luck.” Mandy made a kiss-y noise. “Try not to get convicted.”

            “Love you too.” Mickey hung up and stared out the window. The Chicago streets flashed by, the buildings getting smaller as they reached an area populated with soundstages. The car slowed down to navigate the maze of buildings until it came up to a gate that had Mickey Mouse emblazoned in the middle of it.

            The driver said who he was dropping off and got directions to the right building in return. Mickey got out at the doors and froze in front of them. He’d be damned. It was the same stage they’d been on nine years ago – maybe some new paint, the number on the side retouched – but the same stage all the same. And that hit him with enough nostalgia that he nearly toppled over. He wasn’t even inside yet.

            He took a deep breath and pushed through the doors. Inside, the stage was just like any other. People bustling everywhere, a lot of white noise, and too many walls, tables, and chairs to properly see anything. He stood there for a moment, just breathing in the smell of the place, feeling at home to be back on a set, any set, after so long away from them.

            Then a small girl appeared in front of him – barely eighteen – and asked his name. She found him on her sheet, checked him off, and started to give him a tour of the stage. She took him past each set and told him the letter marker for each, showed him the green room, the snack room, where the crew’s equipment was, and his dressing room. Then she handed him a schedule for the day, in case he’d forgotten his, and disappeared before he could say a word.

            That had been the easy part. As soon as she was gone, the hard part started. People came over to greet him, hug him, ask him how he was. In his head, he rolled through the list of actors on the movie that his agent had made him memorize. He hugged his old stage mom and dad, laughed when the guy who had been his and Ian’s third friend for three seasons cracked a joke about how no one would even remember who he was, and made small talk with Tabitha who had played his love interest in the last season. He remembered kissing her several times off set as well, doing more than kissing her, and then cutting ties with her as soon as the show was cancelled. But she didn’t seem to hold it against him.

            He didn’t see Ian. No one mentioned Ian. Maybe he should have expected that. Sure, out of all of them, he had made the biggest name for himself, but some of them had careers that were nothing to scoff at. Others hadn’t been in the business since the show stopped, but had kept out of the tabloids. Ian was the only one who had gone bat shit insane. Or, at least, the only one who had done it on camera.

            The longer he went without seeing Ian, the more nervous he got. Maybe Ian was avoiding him. Maybe Ian had broken their “no drugs” rule and gotten kicked from the movie. Would they have told him if that happened? Maybe not. Ian was the only reason he was on the movie, after all.

            He lasted until he was on Set B – his apartment – listening to the director explain the shot to him and Tabitha. Halfway through the speech, he said, “Do you know where Ian is?”

            The director blinked. “He asked to start tomorrow. We’re only shooting scenes without him today.”

            Mickey forced himself to say nothing about that. Instead he nodded and gestured for the director to go on. The scene was supposed to be the first time he’d seen Tabitha’s character since they had a messy break-up four years previously. He tried to focus on the director telling him the emotions he wanted him to convey, but his mind kept wandering to Ian. But he shook it off. He did his job. He’d worry about Ian tomorrow.


	12. Chapter 12

Ian didn’t want to go back to set at all. It had only taken him a week to realize what a terrible fucking idea it had been to accept the role, but by then he’d already signed his life away. It was a lot of money. It was more money than he’d ever had in his entire life – hell, more money than his entire family had had in their collective lives. But that didn’t mean he was ready to see all the people he had run away from, all the people who had tried to help him after the show went down the drain, all the people who used to think he’d be the big name and Mickey would be the coked-up one-hit-wonder. It didn’t mean he would ever be ready to walk back onto a set opposite Mickey Milkovich and act like the guy was his best friend.

            He’d lost track of how many times he’d apologized, how many voicemails he’d left. The week he’d spent in Mickey’s apartment felt like a dream. How close they’d been to crossing the line between friends and lovers felt like a fucking hallucination. Ian had never in his life been more sure that Mickey hated him and that included the moment when Ian had come out to him.

            He remembered it now, on his way to the set on a bus. He was standing, one hand on the wobbly handhold that didn’t really help his balance at all. He kept getting shaken out of the memory by the movements of the bus, but the moment played back like it’d happened yesterday.

            Ten years old, sitting across from each other on Ian’s bed, whispering so that they wouldn’t wake his brothers. It was the first time Mickey had spent the night. Fiona had walked him over to his house after dinner, heard something she didn’t like the sound of, and marched him right back. Ian had never been happier to see Mickey, even if Mickey had looked smaller than ever, eyes on the floor, tears glistening in his blue eyes. And this, the boy who hadn’t been able to cry on command no matter what the director said to him.

            Ian had coaxed Mickey out of his shell, out of whatever horror he was hiding from, and had gotten him wrapped up in a heated game of truth or dare. A game of truth or dare too explicit for their ages, but they’d grown up in the Southside. Hell, Ian had seen his parents having sex in the kitchen by that age. Mickey had seen a lot worse.

            The question had been _would you rather fuck Tabitha or Christie?_ and Ian had answered honestly with the word, _neither_. Mickey had stared at him for a long moment like he had just admitted to giving away nuclear launch codes. Before he could ask what the fuck was wrong with Ian, Ian had said, _I think I like boys._

            Mickey had then let loose a thread of curses so violent Ian hadn’t even heard most of them before. Then he refused to sleep in Ian’s bed, demanded to be taken home that instant, made such a racket that Lip had woken up and thrown a pillow at them. Ian didn’t say a word, just waited until Fiona had come to check on them and taken Mickey home when he begged her to.

            Ian remembered the first day on set after that less clearly. He remembered the director telling Mickey to perk up, that Ian was his best friend, remember? He remembered three weeks where Mickey didn’t talk to him outside of rehearsing lines or taping scenes. Then he remembered coming out to one of the producers when they told him that the plot line between him and Christie was going to start getting more romantic. When they threatened to fire him, he remembered Mickey cussing them out and saying he’d quit on the spot if that happened.

            Mickey had always had his back, just like Ian had always had his. Until the moment that they hadn’t, things had gone to shit, and nine years had passed without them seeing each other. Ian wondered if today on set would be better or worse than the day after he told Mickey he was gay.

            The bus came to a stop five blocks from the studio and Ian jumped off. He walked the rest of the way, picked up his pace when he checked the time, and arrived at the gate with the tips of his fingers frozen blue. The guard let him in, called someone in a golf cart to pick him up and bring him to the set, and then he was dropped off at the doors.

            He remembered the set blurrily, like even being there years earlier had been a dream, and shook off the feeling. Without the drugs, he’d been having some weird withdrawal symptoms. Blurred vision. Nausea. Racing thoughts. Rapid speech. A libido through the fucking roof. He hadn’t been sleeping well either, but maybe that was the reason for the other symptoms.

            A PA greeted him at the door and walked him around the set. As he went, he waved to the other actors he passed. He found he recognized most of them – Gabe, who’d played his dad, Christie, his love interest, even Mark, who’d been their third friend – but they didn’t wave back. The chilly reception didn’t surprise him. He’d made the rest of them look bad when he went off the rails.

            He was dropped at the door to his dressing room with a copy of the schedule for the day. He paused to read it, ticked off the scenes in his head. He had memorized most of the script a week ago but still had it with him just in case the atmosphere of the set threw him off. And it was throwing him off big time. Being in the same place made him feel like he was having déjà vu or a weird dream. He wished they had chosen a different building.

            No one spoke to him until he got over to Set C – the coffee shop. There the director ran him through the things he should have been told yesterday – what colour tape was his mark, how many cameras they were working with, what he could and couldn’t touch on set. He knew asking to start late had been a bad idea but yesterday had been Carl’s last day of leave from military school. He hadn’t wanted to miss him.

            About ten minutes into the set rundown, Mickey appeared and Ian stopped hearing anything the director said. His heart started to beat harder in his chest and he had to swallow the lump in his throat. It had been a month. A month without Mickey and somehow Mickey managed to look even better in that time. Maybe when he was on set, he was on a diet, and therefore immediately looked better, but Ian didn’t know if that was it. It just seemed like Mickey glowed. Maybe his natural place was on a movie set. Maybe he had found his calling early on in life.

            “Hey,” Mickey said when he reached them. He gave Ian a brief nod and then focused his attention on the director. Ian followed his lead even though part of him just wanted to pull Mickey aside and apologize profusely and promise to never talk to him again as long as he didn’t ignore him for the entire three months they were filming.

            The director finished his spiel – he had a lot of tips on how to do the scene right and Ian immediately remembered why he had hated the guy – and waved them onto their marks so the cameras could set up.

            Ian let the silence linger between him and Mickey for just a touch longer than was comfortable. Then he said, “So, about the whole kind of forcing you into this thing—”

            “Don’t mention it.” Mickey looked at his feet.

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be,” Mickey said. He met Ian’s eyes briefly, then looked away. “Disney pays, man.”

            “I know.”

            A hint of a smile crept onto Mickey’s lips. “You’re doing good?”

            “I’m clean.”

            “Good.”

            “Mick, I—”

            “Ready?” The director called. Ian shut his mouth. “Set. Action!”

            They dove into the scene – an argument that happened about halfway through the movie over the fact that Mickey’s character, Lance, wanted to drop out of the babysitting business in order to “really start his life.” Ian had taken issue with this part of the script because, well, the fact that two grown men had been running a babysitting business throughout all of college was creepy as fuck. The response he’d gotten was “get your mind out of the gutter, this is Disney.”

            The director called cut on them several times, got them to start at different points in the scene. To Mickey’s credit, he didn’t break once, had all his lines memorized, and didn’t even trip over a single word. Ian thought that, due to his lack of experience, he was keeping up pretty well. He didn’t really know why the director kept telling them to restart.

            They’d been at it almost half an hour and barely managed to get past the first three lines of the five minute scene. When the director yelled cut again, Mickey stepped back and rubbed his hand over his lips. “Again,” the director called, “from the top.”

            “Fuck that,” Mickey said.

            Ian knew he had no standing to agree, but he was glad Mickey’d finally opened his mouth about it. He was getting tired from being on his feet, from the bright stage lights, from saying the same twelve words over and over and over again. He felt like he was wearing a hole in his vocal chords.

            Mickey stepped towards the director, but not off set. “At least tell us what’s fucking wrong this time so we can stop this bullshit.”

            The director almost looked shocked, then he seemed to remember who he was working with. After a moment, he nodded and got up off his chair to join them on set. “You wanna know what you’re doing wrong?” he said, like it was a challenge. “You really want me to spell it out for you?”

            Mickey took a step towards the guy, looked ready to fucking deck him. Ian placed a hand on his shoulder to pull him back.

            “This,” the director said, gesturing to where they were touching, “is the fucking problem.”

            Mickey glanced over his shoulder at Ian, like he hadn’t registered the pressure of his hand at all. Instead of shaking him off, he looked back at the director. “The problem is that we’re touching each other? I haven’t touched him fucking once.”

            “The problem is you two look like you’re about five seconds from going at it against the fucking windows.”

            Mickey raised his eyebrows.

            Ian blinked and spared a glance at the tired extras.

            “Excuse me?” Mickey said.

            “Look, I couldn’t tell you this when you were kids, because it would have been inappropriate, but we’re all grown-ups now, right? So you wanna know the real reason they cancelled your show? It’s because they couldn’t tape two fucking seconds of film where the two of you didn’t look like you were head over heels for each other. But, reboot, they thought, hey, they’re older and haven’t seen each other in ten years and even if they still have feelings for each other, they might be able to fucking hide it better now. But apparently not.”

            Mickey looked away with a shocked expression and then looked back up with the kind of smile on his face that Ian knew meant _back the fuck up._ He tightened his grip on Mickey’s shoulder, but didn’t know what good it would do. After all, Mickey was the star. Maybe if he decked the director, the director would be fired, not him.

            “If this was the kind of perverted shit going on in your head when we were kids, I don’t wanna know what’s in your brain now,” Mickey said. “But I’ll tell you—”

            “No.” The director held up a hand that miraculously silenced Mickey. “I’ll tell _you._ You might be a big fucking name, but I’ve been in this business longer. You wanna hit me? Fine. It’s not gonna fix anything. So you want to know what I really wanted to scream at you when you two little shits were filming scenes nine years ago?” The director raised an eyebrow like he was waiting for one of them to ask. Ian looked to Mickey. Mickey glared daggers at the director. “Fine. I’ll tell you. Either learn to goddamn _act_ or go fuck it out of your system.”

            Mickey’s silence was icy, burning.

            Ian took his hand off of him.

            “Take five,” the director said. “Come back without the fucking puppy dog eyes.”

            Mickey stormed off. Ian hesitated a moment before going after him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I forgot to update this last night!!

Mickey had his phone out and his agent dialed before he was two steps off the set. He waited impatiently through the ringing, very aware of the fact that Ian was following him. Voicemail.

            “Pick the fuck up,” Mickey snapped. He waited a grand total of two seconds before he added, “Get the director fired or get me the fuck off this set.” He hung up.

            A few steps later, Ian’s hand came down on his shoulder. Mickey whirled on him quick enough the Ian’s hand fell, that his touch didn’t have the chance to calm him down. “What are you fucking following me for?” Mickey said.

            Ian held up his hands. “Just wanted to see if you were okay.”

            “Okay? You wanna know if I’m okay?” Mickey almost laughed, but settled for shaking his head instead. “That director just fucking outed me to the entire cast of extras without blinking a goddamn eye.”

            “He didn’t say—”

            “It doesn’t matter what he said. What he said was enough. Extras can’t keep their fucking mouths shut and the rumours will be flying by morning and it’s worse now because you followed me.”

            “What?”

            “What do you think they think we’re doing, Ian? The director just gave us two options.”

            Ian licked his lips and lowered his eyes to the ground. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”

            “You never do.” Mickey stormed off before he had a chance to feel bad about that. He tried to call his agent again and still got voicemail. Then he called his publicist and, giving as little information as possible, told her to get ready for a scandal to hit soon.

            He barged into his dressing room and slammed the door behind himself. He stopped in front of the mirror. He didn’t think he had fucking puppy dog eyes. Several times in his career he’d been told he was incapable of looking at someone like he loved them. More than once, someone had joked about getting him a facial expression double for the romantic scenes in his movies. Who knew the secret to fixing that problem was putting Ian Gallagher in front of him?

            Mickey sighed. He screwed up his face in the mirror and then did his best to put on a completely neutral expression. He ran though his old exercises from acting class – happiness, anger, sadness – and then shook his head fast. Looking himself in the eyes, he thought, _think of Ian._ He didn’t notice his expression change one bit.

            It had been longer than five minutes, but the asshole deserved to wait after what he’d said to him. Mickey checked his phone to find a text from his publicist – _what kind of scandal_ – and he replied, _a gay one_. Then he shoved his phone into his pocket and walked back to the set slow, ignoring everyone who shot him furtive glances on the way.

            Ian was already back on set, hands in his pockets, walking in circles as he whispered his lines under his breath. Mickey stopped a few feet away to look at him. He arranged his face in a calm manner, breathed until he was sure he had everything back in control, and then walked up to his mark. Ian stopped pacing to look up at him, his green eyes soft, questioning. Mickey almost broke his resolve on the spot. Almost.

            “We shooting or what?” Mickey said.

            The director gave a shrug that seemed to imply _ready when you are_ and Mickey looked to Ian with his best expression of disdain. Ian jumped on his mark. The director called action. They got through three lines of dialogue, then five, then seven, and Mickey had to resist the urge to shoot the director a snotty glare. Instead he focused on Ian’s nose, gave the impression of looking into his eyes without actually doing it.

            Three minutes in, the director called cut. Mickey guessed he couldn’t have asked for a fucking miracle.

            “Now you look like you hate each other,” the director said.

            “We’re having an argument,” Mickey said.

            “But you’re still friends. Can you do friends for me, Milkovich?”

            Mickey wanted to punch the guy’s smug face in. He glanced over his shoulder at Ian, who shrugged, and then gave the director his nastiest smile. “Sure. We can do friends. After all, we’re friends, right, Ian?”

            Ian said nothing, just looked down at his shoes.

            Mickey rolled his eyes and stepped back onto his mark. He was going to have to give Ian a lesson in growing a fucking backbone, but that could wait until the scene was finished. They had to get through the thing three times perfectly for all the camera angles before they could move onto the next section and, at this rate, they’d be there until two in the morning. Maybe having a co-star who wasn’t as bratty as him would actually prove to be an advantage.

            They went through half the scene again and then again and again. Every time the director let them go just a little bit further and Mickey wondered if that meant they were improving or if the director was just a dick. He preferred to think it was the former.

            He messed up his first line somewhere around the ninety minute mark. When he did, he asked for another five minute break and the director gave it to him, begrudgingly. He didn’t storm off set. Instead, he sat down in one of the empty chairs and pulled out his phone. Three texts from his publicist asking him to explain and a long paragraph from his agent about how this was the original director from their series, a man Mickey had worked with for many years, and he was important to the shoot. The company had gone through a lot of trouble to get him back. Mickey replied, _it’s him or me._

            Two minutes later he got a text from his publicist again that said, _more likely we’ll have a scandal about you being a diva._ Mickey didn’t deign that worthy of a reply. He shoved his phone back into his pocket, took a breath, and went back to his mark. Looking at the ceiling, he ran through his lines in his head to make sure he had them down. Ian came back to set a minute later, sipping a coffee. He handed it off to the first PA who asked for it.

            “You okay?” Ian asked.

            “Peachy.”

            “I just meant...” Ian shrugged. “Are we okay?”

            “Were we ever okay, Ian?”

            Ian opened his mouth to reply, but the director called them to attention. Mickey felt his heart drop a little further in his stomach, weighed down by his own nastiness. He couldn’t help it. Seeing Ian again was hard. Harder than he had expected it to be. And, yeah, he’d done his best to forgive the guy and move on – after all, he could’ve gotten out of it if he had really wanted to – but having those green eyes in front of him again just made him feel like a teenager with a bad crush.

            They got through the whole scene on that run and the director praised them for finally, finally hitting the right note between friendship, anger, and _platonic_ love. Mickey flipped him off. Then they had to do it again without messing up. And again.

            It was noon by the time they finished and broke for lunch. Mickey almost let Ian walk away from him. He should have let Ian walk away from him. Instead, he clapped him on the shoulder and headed the same way. “Good job,” he said.

            Ian met his eyes with a small smile. “That took forever.”

            “Yeah, well. It’s not our fault the director’s a jackass.” Mickey meant to leave it at that, but Ian was still looking at him, and he rambled on. “Plus, you’ve got your lines down, which is more than I can say for most people I’ve worked with. And you can still fucking act after all these years, so kudos.” Ian still stared. Mickey cursed. “Whaddya want me to say?”

            Ian shook his head. “Nothing. You’ve just been so hot and cold on me all day.”

            Mickey didn’t have anything to say to that, so he occupied himself playing with the hem of his t-shirt. He knew if he pulled the threads out the costume department would throw a shit fit, so he only let his nail catch against the threads for a moment before pulling back.

            “I get that I kind of forced you into this and that you’re pissed you’re here and the director’s a dick and it’s kind of my fault, but...” Ian trailed off. Mickey risked a look at him. Ian smiled. “Think we can do it? Be friends like he asked?”

            Mickey thought about it. On one hand, all he really wanted was a good excuse to hang out with Ian as much as possible. On the other, friends was the last thing he wanted to be with Ian. He pulled on a thread too hard and broke it, cursed under his breath. He could feel Ian’s eyes on him, the question in the air, and knew he wasn’t doing a great job at hiding what he was thinking. Some benefit to being an actor.

            He met Ian’s eyes finally and said, “You left my life at fifteen, came back at twenty-four just to fuck it up, disappeared some more, and somehow wound up putting me on the set of a movie I hate? Does that sound like a recipe for friendship to you?”

            Ian’s eyes fell.

            Mickey wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed him tight. “Fucking kidding with you, Gallagher.” He pushed him away, but not before getting in a good noogie. “Jesus, you’re easy.”

            “You haven’t managed to get in my pants yet.”

            Mickey laughed, tried to hit him but Ian dodged. Real happiness bubbled over him to see Ian smile, laugh. They walked to lunch together making bad jokes and ripping the script to shreds. At one point, Ian said, “If they really can’t stop us from eye-fucking, they could just make our characters gay.” Mickey laughed so hard he almost fell over in his chair.

            They went on to the next scene and the next and the next. The director had found a spray bottle somewhere and now spritzed them whenever they looked like they wanted to fuck. The only thing that held Mickey back from murdering the guy on the spot was the goofy smile on Ian’s face whenever he was dripping with water.

            Mickey was careful with his expression, careful to keep his eyes off of Ian’s. If they were going to be friends, like Ian wanted, then he had to get control of himself. It wasn’t like Ian was God’s gift to gay men or anything. He was just a guy with a serious drug problem, a hint of alcoholism, a screwed up family, and a smile that could light up the fucking sun.

            Mickey found himself laughing more often than not when Ian tripped over a line or forgot what he was going to say. He’d be lying if he didn’t throw in an eyebrow raise here or there to crack him up, if he said he didn’t like seeing Ian flustered in front of the cameras. The director grumbled something about the blooper reel being “gay as fuck” but Mickey ignored him as he got water sprayed in his face.

            They got back in rhythm. By the end of the day, their last scene took them an hour to film. It was only seven by the time Mickey had packed up his stuff and was heading out the front door. Ian caught up to him on the way, a smile and a yawn on his lips at the same time.

            “You headed back to Fiona’s?” Mickey asked.

            “Nah, they’ve got me in a hotel closer to here.”

            “A hotel?” Mickey wrinkled his nose. He nudged Ian with his elbow. “Fuck that. Come back to my place.”

             “A comfy five-star hotel bed or your couch?” Ian clicked his tongue. “Hard choice, but I’m going to go with the hotel.”

            “Wow. Respect the couch, Ian. It’s older than you are.”

            Ian laughed. “It feels like it.”

            Mickey shoved him and stepped towards the car waiting for him. “You got a ride to this hotel?”

            “Bus.”

            “Come with me.” Mickey didn’t wait for a response, just started walking. But like earlier, he knew Ian was following him. They slid into the car together and Ian gave the driver the name of his hotel before resting back on the seat. Mickey liked the silence between them, but he decided to ruin it anyways. “You like being an actor again?”

            Ian shrugged. “It pays the bills.”

            “So still not your life’s calling?”

            “Never thought it was your calling either.”

            “Like you said, it pays the bills.”

            Ian was silent for a moment, staring out the window at the streetlights as they flashed by. “To tell you the truth, I never really had much fun on set unless I was filming with you. Don’t know if I would have kept up with it even if I hadn’t gone off the rails.”

            Mickey made a noise somewhere between a ‘hmm’ and a ‘yeah.’ Then he said, “Don’t know if I would have kept up with it without Mandy. I don’t know that I’ve ever had much fun on set.”

            Ian elbowed him. “Not even with me?”

            Mickey smiled. “I have fun with you. But that’s not really about being on set, is it?”

            “No. Guess not.”

            The driver pulled up in front of Ian’s hotel and the two sat there for a moment, warm in the silence. Mickey shot Ian a look, a small grin, as he felt the awkwardness of the moment closing in. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow?” Mickey said.

            Ian nodded, forced a smile. “Goodnight.”

            Mickey waved him off and watched as he exited the car. He didn’t tell the driver to go until Ian was safely inside.


	14. Chapter 14

Filming with Mickey turned out to be a lot easier than Ian had thought it would be. They fell into an easy routine – Mickey picked him up, they filmed all morning, ate lunch together, filmed all afternoon, and then Mickey drove him back to the hotel. Being friends wasn’t as hard as it had seemed a month ago.

            But being just friends with Mickey had its downside. It took a serious toll on Ian mentally and physically. He couldn’t sleep – not that he really wanted to – and he found himself making stupid, impulse purchases of things he thought Mickey would like at three in the morning off of sketchy internet sites. He watched a lot of porn. When porn didn’t do it, he hooked up with the nearest guy on Grindr, almost indiscriminately.  

            Not that he blamed his frustrations on Mickey. He was the one who had wanted just friends. He was the one who had pushed Mickey away. It got harder and harder to see why every day and, more often than not, when the director shot water their way, it landed on Ian’s face.

            If Mickey noticed, he didn’t say anything, but Ian started to pick up on other hints. Mickey would smile whenever Ian got sprayed in the face. He was always asking Ian to spend the night at his place instead of the hotel. When Ian mentioned an interest, Mickey almost always came back the next day having read up on it or with some small gift for Ian related to it. Ian, on the other hand, could never get up the courage to actually give Mickey one of the million things he had bought for him.

            As Christmas neared, filming started to taper off and Ian found himself more and more lonely. He remembered the feeling of being on the TV show – how every season wrapped felt like a shot to the chest – and wondered how bad it would be to finish the movie. Would he survive it without relapsing completely? Ending a movie was like losing a family. It would definitely mean losing Mickey.

            Ian did his best to shake off the feeling of impending doom by accepting every Christmas party invitation thrown his way. He even roped Mickey into a few of them. Two nights before Christmas, on the last day of filming before they broke for the holiday, Christie and Tabitha invited them out for drinks. Ian said yes before Mickey could say no and Mickey, rolling his eyes, agreed to go out with them.

            They all piled into their cars and headed for the nearest bar – a dive that was mostly populated with actors filming at other studios. When they stopped outside, Mickey put his hand on Ian’s arm before he could get out.

            “Hey,” Mickey said, “don’t slip up in here.”

            “I’m fine, Mick. I’ve been fine for just over two months.”

            Mickey gave him a look like he didn’t quite believe him, but let his hand drop. Ian slipped out of the car feeling colder than he had in a while. He knew he didn’t owe Mickey anything and Mickey hadn’t told him not to drink, but he promised himself he wouldn’t go over two beers. Not if Mickey was worried about him.

            But it kind of bugged him that Mickey _was_ worried about him. He’d been clean since before the movie had started. And Mickey knew what he was like high, how he got. He was pretty sure he hadn’t had a night where he’d made a pass at Mickey or forgotten where he was for a long time.

            Ian managed to push his worries back in order to keep up with the conversation. He laughed at all the right points in Christie’s stories, screwed up his face when he taste-tested Tabitha’s too-sour martini, and even managed to make Mickey smile once or twice. He nursed his first beer slowly, watched the others get wasted. Even Mickey drank more than he usually did and near the end of the night, he looked ready to fall off his stool.

            “Okay, okay, okay!” Tabitha said, clapping her hands. “We have not played nearly enough games tonight.”

            “Drinking games?” Christie replied.

            “No! _Game_ games. Like sleepover games.”

            Mickey snorted. “This isn’t a fucking sleepover.”

            “Humour me.” Tabitha closed her eyes for a moment and managed to open them looking completely sober, even though she was anything but. “Mickey, fuck marry kill. The three of us. Go.”

            Mickey shook his head. “I’m not answering that.”

            “Come on.” Ian almost nudged him, but thought the action might tip him over. He smiled right at Mickey. “We all know you’re going to kill me.”

            “I don’t know,” Mickey said. “The director thinks I’d fuck you so—”

            The rest of his sentence was lost in the girls’ laughter.

            Mickey held up a hand to silence them. “In all honesty, fuck marry kill, the three of you?” He shook his head. “I’m putting you all in the ground. None of that shit would be good for my career.”

            Ian laughed and slipped the beer bottle out of Mickey’s grip. “I think once you’re spewing death threats, it’s time to cut you off.”

            “I think it’s time to cut us _all_ off,” Christie said. She stood up and grabbed Tabitha’s arm. “It’s late and I need to get her home before she passes out.”

            “Same,” Ian said, squeezing Mickey’s shoulder. He let the girls go first, watched them disappear out the glass door, and then got to his feet. “Can you call the car, Mick? Mick?”

            He shook his head. “It’s only a few blocks to your hotel.”

            Ian wanted to protest – dragging a drunk Mickey three blocks would be no easy task – but he supposed it was only fair after Mickey had done it for him. So he coaxed Mickey off the bar stool, got him to settle their tab, and then they started down the street. At first Ian didn’t touch him, just let him wander down the sidewalk but after he almost bumped into a couple going the other way, Ian took hold of his arm.

            “You going home for Christmas?” Mickey asked.

            “Yeah,” Ian said. “Fiona says she misses me. What are you doing?”

            Mickey shrugged. “Mandy’s flying in for a few days.”

            “She’s not busy?”

            “Hasn’t had a part in a while. Figured she’d give it a break for the holidays.” Mickey raised his eyes to look at Ian instead of his feet. “You should stop by. She’d like to see you.”

            “Or, you could stop by. You know Gallagher Christmases. People everywhere, no one’s really related, the whole thing goes to shit really fast.” Ian forced a smile. “Having you and Mandy there would really make it feel like old times.”

            Mickey smiled back then kicked a chunk of snow on the sidewalk. A few steps later, Ian kicked the same chunk further down. Mickey said, “I’d love to, but I don’t really like putting Mandy that close to Terry, you know?”

            “Mick...” Ian hesitated over the words. Mickey looked over at him with curiosity on his face, one eyebrow raised. Ian’s mouth moved, but for a long time the words didn’t come out. He shook his head. “Wow, umm, Mick, he’s... dead. I thought you knew.”

            “He’s dead?” Mickey stopped in his tracks.

            Ian stopped too and gave a slight nod.

            Then, suddenly, Mickey was kissing him. His lips were hot, hungry, and fierce. His tongue dipped into Ian’s mouth for just a moment before he pulled back to nibble at Ian’s bottom lip. He stopped almost as quickly as he’d started, a smile on his face.

            “Mistletoe,” Mickey said, pointing up. “Figured I owed you.”

            Ian lasted about a second before he started to laugh. “That how you usually react when people tell you your dad’s dead?”

            “It’s a definite turn on of mine.” Mickey kept walking and Ian had to scramble to catch up with him. “When did he die?”

            “About a week ago,” Ian said. “It was actually the day you picked me up late, so I thought... I thought someone had told you.”

            Mickey shook his head. “I don’t talk to anyone back home anymore. Not even my brothers.”

            “Why not?”

            “Why would I? They’ve never been there for me, never had my back. They rode my fame as far as they could before I dumped them off and they’re all still criminals and drug addicts so it’s bad for my image to go back there.”

            “Does that mean you’re still not coming for Christmas?”

            “I’ll think about it.”

            They walked the rest of the way to the hotel in silence. They got into the elevator, Ian pressed the button for floor eight, and Mickey smiled. “What?” Ian said.

            “Just remembering the last time we were in an elevator together.”

            Ian made a face. “When was that?”

            “When you were blackout drunk and I dragged you home.” Mickey leaned back against the elevator wall and turned his cocky smile on Ian. “You remember what you called me?”

            “Do I want to?”

            Mickey snorted. “No. God. I wish I didn’t remember.”

            Ian laughed.

            “Kind of turned me on though,” Mickey said.

            “Fuck off.”

            “So you do remember?”

            Ian shrugged. “I have an idea.”

            It was Mickey’s turn to laugh. Ian kept his head down to hide his blush as the elevator dinged open on their floor. He grabbed Mickey’s arm to keep him steady and led him down the hall to his room. While he went for the key, Mickey leaned against the wall looking at him. Ian could feel the heat in his gaze, the want in his eyes. He opened the door as quickly as he could and pushed Mickey inside.

            After he’d closed the door, he met Mickey’s eyes again. “You’re drunk,” he said.

            “I’m not that drunk.” Mickey took a step forward.

            Ian caught the collar of Mickey’s shirt and held him at an arm’s length. “Just friends, remember?”

            “That was a stupid fucking idea when we started this movie and it’s a stupid fucking idea now.”

            “Do you just get gayer the drunker you are?”

            Mickey snorted. “Fuck off.” He batted at Ian’s arm, trying to get closer, and Ian eventually relented. Mickey came in close, his breath hot over Ian’s face, his smile like moonlight. Their noses rubbed together and Ian stopped breathing. “You know,” Mickey said, “I fall asleep thinking about you. Wake up in the middle of dreams about you. You’re under my skin, man.”

            Ian looked down into Mickey’s blue eyes and felt his heart stutter back to life. All of him knew this was a bad idea. If it had been a bad idea a thousand times before, it was still a bad idea now. Nothing had changed. Plus, Mickey was drunk.

            “We shouldn’t do this when you’re drunk.”

            “Shut up.”

            Mickey pressed their lips together in a sweet, soft kiss. He pulled back after only a second and Ian leaned in to follow his lips, stumbled away from the door as Mickey moved backwards. Mickey got a hand on his neck and pulled him in to deepen the kiss just before he hit the bed. Ian pressed him back onto the mattress and crawled on top of him. Mickey’s fingers found their way under his shirt and started to pull it up.

            Ian broke the kiss to get his shirt off but was back on Mickey a second later. He couldn’t believe that Mickey tasted as good as he did. In all his wildest fantasies, Mickey tasted like he looked – like cigarettes and the bite of alcohol. He’d never adjusted for the man Mickey had become, for the mint lip balm Mickey used religiously and the honey edge of his new favourite beer. He never imagined Mickey would taste like money and stars, like someone who might actually be good for him.

            “Ian,” Mickey muttered between kisses. “Ian. Ian.”

            It took Ian a moment to realize Mickey was trying to get his attention. He pulled back to look at the sparkles in Mickey’s eyes, the happy smile that had kept grazing his lips. “Mick,” Ian said. He ran his hand back through Mickey’s black hair, pulled it just a little to get a mumbled groan out of the other man’s lips.

            “Ian.”

            “What?”

            Mickey started to laugh, his whole body shaking under Ian. “I can’t get it up, man.”

            Ian’s smile faltered. “What?”

            “I’m fucking wasted. I’m sorry.” Mickey kept laughing, even as he pulled Ian down for another kiss. He kissed him sloppily and hungrily and with the kind of pressure that made Ian forget how confused he was about the whole situation. “In the morning,” Mickey said. “I promise. As soon as I’m fucking sober, you can fuck me.”

            Ian started to laugh too and brought his lips down to kiss Mickey’s shoulder, his collarbone, his neck. He leaned their foreheads together and looked into Mickey’s eyes until they blurred. Then he kissed him soft, sweet, before rolling over to lay beside Mickey on the mattress.

            “Wanna hear something funny?” Mickey said.

            “Sure.”

            “Mandy thinks I’m in love with you.” Mickey paused for a long moment. “I think maybe she’s right.”

            Ian opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t figure out what the proper response was. It didn’t matter. Mickey was asleep seconds later, his stomach moving up and down, slight snores leaving his lips. Ian stroked back his hair, kissed him on the forehead, and then started the difficult task of getting Mickey under the covers without waking him.

            He managed and then settled down beside him. He watched Mickey sleep for a long time, not tired himself.


	15. Chapter 15

Mickey woke stretched across the bed, taking up too much space to believe Ian was anywhere on the mattress. He lifted his head and was greeted with a pounding, slicing headache that made him press his face into the pillow and groan. Last night was clear in his memory – blackout drunk was not something the Milkoviches did – and besides, he didn’t want to forget any of it.

            “Ian,” he mumbled into the pillow. Then, a second later when there was no response, a little louder but still into the pillow, “Ian?”

            “Morning.” Ian plopped a kiss on top of Mickey’s head. His voice was much too cheery for how early in the morning it _had_ to be based on the angle the sun was coming in the window at.

            “You ever fucking sleep?” Mickey asked.

            “Sure.”

            “Really?” Mickey forced himself to roll over, even though it made his brain rattle against his skull. He opened one eye to peek at Ian as he paced the room, first shifting through papers on the desk and then looking for something in the closet and then back to the desk. “Because you didn’t fall asleep when I did and you’re not in bed now and you were up at three in the morning when I went to take a piss.”

            Ian flashed him a distracted smile as he went back to the closet. “I can function on very little sleep.”

            “What’s in there?”

            “Just some junk I bought.” Ian slammed the closet doors shut – which was a feat of strength, really – and then focussed his attention on Mickey. “You okay? There’s water and Advil on the table.”

            Mickey glanced over at it. “Got any alcohol?”

            Ian stared at him.

            “What?”

            “Promise you won’t be mad?”

            “Why would I be mad?”

            Ian walked over to the dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. He pulled out a bottle of vodka big enough to keep Russia going through the winter and walked over to hand it to Mickey. Mickey felt its weight in his hand, saw the liquid slosh in the mostly empty space. But he kept his lips pursed right up until he took a swig. Once he capped the bottle, he said, “Thought the movie was doing drug tests.”

            Ian shrugged. “They don’t care about alcohol.”

            “Oh, and it’s alcohol that’s been keeping you up all night?”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            Mickey grabbed Ian by the wrist before he could walk away. He fixed him with his most serious face – something that was hard to do when he was hungover, dressed in last night’s clothes, and at least two feet shorter sitting on the bed than Ian was standing. “Come on,” Mickey said. “Don’t fucking lie to me. Every day this week when I’ve come to pick you up, the front desk has said you’ve been out since six in the morning. Running. I don’t know what the fuck you’ve got in that closet, but you can’t tell me that’s fucking normal.”

            Mickey shook his head. “Ian, I didn’t wanna see it. But you’re jittery on set, you’re in and out of daydreams, you’re talking too fast for the mics to fucking hear you—”

            “I’m not high, Mick.” Ian ripped his hand away from Mickey.

            “Give me another fucking explanation then.”

            Ian glared at him. “Unless this is your twisted version of foreplay, then—”

            “Get out?” Mickey finished. He stood in the small space between Ian and the edge of the bed, legs unsteady because his knees couldn’t fully unbend. Even four inches shorter, Mickey could look fucking intimidating if he wanted to. “You’d have to make me.”

            Ian shoved him and he fell back on the bed hard. A second later, Ian had crawled on top of him, fire burning in his green eyes. “The movie does fucking drug tests, once a week like clockwork, and that shit doesn’t come out in just a few days.” Ian lowered his hips onto Mickey’s and rolled them. “So you can either believe me and make good on what you promised me last night, or get the fuck out.”

            Mickey licked his lips. Part of him wanted to keep pushing Ian on it, because he knew what coked-up looked like and this was worse. But a lot of his blood was rushing out of his brain at the moment and he couldn’t argue the facts. Ian had been drug-tested on Monday and even if he had decided that, hey, it was the last drug test in a while and he might as well blow all the money he’d earned so far, he wouldn’t have gotten completely out of control so fast.

            Mickey rose off the bed and smashed their lips together, getting a lot of tongue and teeth before Ian gripped the back of his neck and forced the kiss to slow. Ian lowered Mickey back onto the bed slowly, his lips moving evenly, his hand moving down to tickle over his collarbone and stretch the collar of Mickey’s t-shirt.

            Mickey tried to mumble something into Ian’s mouth, but it got lost in the kiss and quite frankly Mickey didn’t know if his brain was up to forming coherent sentences. He got a hand in Ian’s hair and pulled him closer, wanting to feel and taste every inch of him.

            Mickey knew that as much as he’d like to take it slow, as much as he’d like to drag it out and keep the foreplay going for hours, he had to pick up Mandy from the airport in a couple of hours. Not to mention that Ian was half hard and had been waiting to do this for ten fucking years. If Mickey wasn’t lying to himself, he’d admit that that was how long he’d been waiting for it too.

            He pulled off Ian’s shirt and unlatched their mouths to leave small red marks down the length of his neck. Ian responded in kind, got his hands under the fabric of Mickey’s t-shirt and then dipped his head down to kiss his stomach. He wasted no time going down, his tongue swiping under the hem of Mickey’s already half-undone jeans.

            Ian yanked his pants off – boxers and all – and almost pulled Mickey right off the bed. He kept him on the mattress with a hand on his hip and a second later his lips were suckling the head of Mickey’s dick.

            “Fuck,” Mickey breathed out.

            Ian didn’t take him into his mouth. Instead, he laid kisses down the underside of Mickey’s dick and hiked up his hips. His lips grazed Mickey’s butt cheeks and teeth bit in to his flesh. He licked down the crack before stretching Mickey’s ass apart with gentle hands and diving in. His tongue teased the rim of his hole before dipping in without warning.

            Mickey lost the ability to form words as Ian’s tongue curled inside of him. He was reduced to moans and groans and little pleas that sounded more like whimpers. The whole bed rumbled from Ian’s rutting against the edge of the mattress.

            “Hurry,” Mickey managed. He put a hand over his eyes to pretend that fucking while having a massive hangover was anywhere near a good idea.

            Ian was off him a moment later and Mickey braced himself for history to repeat itself – Ian pushing him off the bed, laughing at him, telling him he wasn’t ready when he was, he was, _he was._ But before Mickey could even prop himself up to see what Ian was doing, there was a hand fondling his balls and lips nipping at his hips.

            “Scared me there,” Mickey mumbled.

            “Don’t worry,” Ian said. “I’m gonna take good care of you.”

            “As long as you do it fucking fast.” Mickey opened his eyes to glance at the clock on the bedside table. “I’ve got somewhere to be, Gallagher.”

            “Mm.” Ian stuck a lubed-up finger into Mickey and curled it just right. “Well, it helps that you’re so ready for me already. Like, fuck, Mick. How often you work with those dildos in your bedside drawer?” Ian added another finger and started to move them in and out. “You picture me when you do it? Think about opening yourself up for me?”

            Mickey laughed. “Fuck you.”

            “Bet I could make you come just from my fingers.”

            “How about you try that another time.” Mickey gave Ian the laziest look he could muster, but had to bite his lip when Ian started scissoring his fingers. “I know you’re desperate to get your cock in me. How desperate you are for this ass. It’s written all over your fucking face.”

            Ian did his best to hide a smirk. “What movie’s that from?”

            Mickey laughed.

            Ian pressed a kiss to the inside of Mickey’s thigh and then pulled his fingers out. “All right, if you’re quoting movies, I guess it’s time to get onto the main event.” He flicked the button on his jeans open and then dropped them to the ground.

            Mickey let his eyes rove over Ian’s naked body. It would be an understatement to say the man looked good. Somehow, ten years as a drug addict hadn’t managed to fuck up his genetics at all. He still looked like a cross between a Greek god and an Abercrombie & Fitch model. And to think, Mickey had had fantasies about him when he was fifteen and looked like a living version of a Cabbage Patch doll.

            Ian lifted Mickey’s leg a bit and pulled him to the edge of the bed. He lined himself up with Mickey’s hole, not looking him in the eyes. But his whole face was filled with consideration, awe, and a little hesitation. When he was lined up and ready to go, he finally met Mickey’s eyes. A touch of a smile spread onto his lips. “You know, it’d make me a shitty friend if I didn’t ask if you were sure about this.”

            “Thought we decided friends was bullshit.”

            “Just friends,” Ian corrected. His eyes flickered down from Mickey’s eyes to his lips and then back again. His hands stroked down Mickey’s thighs. “Tell me you’re ready this time and I’ll believe you.”

            Mickey wanted nothing more than to kiss Ian, but the shift would require them to spend time getting back into position, and Mickey didn’t want to wait. He was done waiting for what he wanted, done denying himself. Looking into Ian’s eyes, he nodded. “I’m ready. Ian... this is the only thing I want.”

            “Because you’ve got everything else,” Ian quipped, but he was a little breathless and Mickey could’ve sworn he saw relief flicker across his expression.

            Then Ian shifted slightly, one hand on his own dick, and pushed into Mickey slow. He bottomed out and then leaned down to capture Mickey’s lips in a kiss. Barely moving back, he whispered, “How’s this feel?”

            “Fucking amazing.”

            “I’m not even moving yet.”

            “But it’s so much better than silicone.” Mickey smirked.

            Ian let out a breathy laugh, pulled out, and then slammed back in again. The whole bed shook and Mickey let out a laughing gasp. He pressed his lips back into Ian’s, kissing him hungrily as he set a punishing pace. It took a few minutes, maybe more than a few minutes, for Mickey to register any kind of sexual pleasure. For a while, he was just happy. Happier than he’d been his entire life.

            Then Ian hit his prostate and he stopped being able to distinguish between happy and sad, fantasy and reality, himself and Ian. He let out a curse word nasty enough to cause Ian to pause, one eyebrow raised.

            “Keep going. Fucking hell. Faster. Damn it, Ian.”

            Ian gave him another bruising kiss and then raised himself to get a better angle. His nails dug into Mickey’s thighs as he pounded in. Mickey bit his bottom lip until it bled, whimpered more than moaned as pleasure racked through his body. His thighs shivered, tensed, and he really could do nothing more than lay there and take it.

            Ian didn’t seem to mind his lack of effort. If anything, he was enjoying Mickey’s laid back approach. He set his own rhythm. He let his hands roam over Mickey’s thighs, across his stomach, and then intertwined their fingers. He raised Mickey’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles one by one.

            Mickey felt his breath leave his chest completely as he stared up at Ian, as he felt his lips press around each of his knuckles, as he tensed around Ian inside of him. His dick throbbed between his spread legs, but he refused to touch it. He knew if he did, it’d be over in a second. Plus, he’d prefer to have Ian’s fingers on him or Ian’s mouth or whatever part of himself Ian wanted to offer even if it was just his thigh to rut against. But he knew he could come without it. At the pace Ian was setting, he’d come in the next two minutes.

            Then one of Ian’s large hands came down on his dick. No pressure at first, just gently exploring fingers, like Ian had explored the rest of him. He rubbed his thumb over the head and got his first genuine groan out of Mickey – a sound somewhere between a curse and Ian’s name. The smile on Ian’s face changed from one of humour and disbelief and happiness to one that looked too real to be real. The kind of smile actors had in rom-coms when the love interest came back with that one grand gesture. Mickey couldn’t believe his grand gesture was spreading his legs.

            “What the fuck are you looking at?” Mickey said, trying not to smile around the words.

            Ian shook his head. “I’m just looking at this fucking beautiful man that I had given up on ten years ago. And I’m wondering how the hell I made such a dumbass mistake.”

            “I’m the one who fucked it, Ian.”

            “Well, it doesn’t matter now.” Ian kissed him again, a soft, smooth kiss at odds with the slapping of their hips meeting. He brushed Mickey’s hair back from his face, twisted it in his fingers until it hurt just a little bit. “I love you, Mickey Milkovich.”

            “Fuck you.”

            “You said it first,” Ian reminded him.

            Mickey laughed. “Would you just fucking finish already? I need to go.”

            Ian smiled as he rubbed their noses together. Then he sped up what had already been a punishing pace and tightened his grip on Mickey’s dick. Their kisses became sloppy and uncontrolled, just like the movements of Ian’s hips. He didn’t manage to hit the right spot every time, but Mickey almost liked it better that way when he never knew when the shock of ecstasy would come.

            “Fuck, Mick—”

            “Do it. Come on.”

            Mickey felt the hot, stickiness of Ian’s relief and, even though he internally panicked over the fact that they’d managed to forget a condom, he came from the feeling of it. Ian stroked him through the aftershocks and then licked Mickey clean. When he came back up for a kiss, Mickey tasted himself on Ian’s tongue.

            “Sorry,” Ian said. “I realized just as—”

            “Shut up.” Mickey pulled him into a deeper kiss and wrapped his legs around Ian’s. Ian kissed him back lazily. Mickey said, “Fuck. I don’t think I can move.”

            “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

            “Mm. Five more minutes.”

 

Mickey ended up telling Mandy the truth about why he’d left her waiting by an empty luggage carousel for twenty minutes because if he couldn’t lie to her over the phone, he had no fucking chance in person. After she’d rolled her eyes half a dozen times and hit him on the arm more than once, she calmed down enough to sigh and say, “At least the course of true love runs smooth even if my fucking travel plans can’t.”

            “Fuck off,” Mickey said. He glanced out the car window to check how far they had left to go before turning back to her. “You’re gonna have to learn to be nice by tomorrow. ‘Cause we’re spending Christmas at the Gallaghers.”

            “You two just had sex last night and you’re already having joint Christmases? Are you getting married on New Years Eve? Can I expect babies by my birthday?”

            Mickey rolled his eyes. “Stop being dramatic.”

            “Will someone be calling me ‘Auntie Mandy’ by the time my next show goes up? Will you two have a divorce scandal before the rumours that I’m sleeping with Thomas Jefferson hit the press?”

            “You’re sleeping with Thomas Jefferson?”

            “No. I’m trying to see if I have your fucking attention.”

            “Even when you’re being a bitch, I do listen to you.”

            Mandy shook her head. “Time to be serious. I know you love Ian and he loves you and you just had the best sex of your life while I was waiting at the airport like a loser—”

            “I said sorry.”

            “But have you considered the real issues yet?”

            “It’s Christmas Eve. Can we not?”

            Mandy forced a smile. “You’re not out, Mickey. And Ian is. You’re going to have to deal with that. And if you do wanna get married? What then? Your publicist is good, but she can’t hide you two forever. If that’s even what Ian wants. And let’s just... let’s forget that for a second, because coming out is your business, but are you strong enough to let a drug addict into your life? Can you be around him without wanting to be back on all that junk?”

            “He’s clean.”

            “You don’t sound sure.”

            Mickey pursed his lips as the driver pulled up at his apartment. He put the conversation on hold in order to get out of the car, get Mandy’s suitcase, and smile for the photographers who had come to see them together. Famous siblings always got a good price from the tabloids, he guessed. Especially if they lived so far apart.

            Then they were in the lobby, in the elevator, and Mandy hit the emergency stop. “Spill,” she said. “Ian. Drugs. What’s up?”

            Mickey shook his head. He pulled the emergency stop button out again. “Nothing. He says he’s clean and the show says he’s clean—”

            “But?”

            “He didn’t go to sleep last night, as far as I saw. Pretty sure he hasn’t been sleeping much at all lately. He’s shaking and spacing out and talks so fast I’m surprised his tongue doesn’t fall right out of his mouth.” Mickey took a deep breath. “I’ve seen people on coke, Mandy. I used to snort coke. I don’t know how he’s getting around the drug tests but... fuck, he’s got a closet full of crap he’s buying, probably off the internet in the middle of the fucking night because he’s not sleeping... but he swears he’s clean. Practically bit my head off for mentioning it.”

            The elevator dinged at their floor and they walked to Mickey’s door in silence. When Mickey had his key in the lock, Mandy placed a hand on his elbow. Her eyes were wide when they looked up at Mickey.

            “Remember his mom?” she said.

            “Sure.” Mickey opened the door. “Crazy bitch. What about her?”

            Mandy stepped into the apartment after him and closed the door. “She was sick, Mickey. Like really sick.”

            Mickey turned around to face his sister, not quite getting the point. “She obviously pulled through. Ian hasn’t mentioned that she bit it, so—”

            “Not that kind of sick. She was bipolar, remember?”

            “Bipolar. Right.” Mickey stared at his sister and then it hit him. “Mania.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Fuck.”


	16. Chapter 16

Ian walked in through the backdoor of the Gallagher house and was immediately assaulted by half a dozen people yelling his name. He did his best not to drop the gifts he’d brought as Debbie wrapped her arms around his middle. Kissing her on the head, Ian greeted her and handed off the presents to Fiona who was always ready to step in so a disaster could be avoided. Debbie pulled away so Carl could take her place, his hug a little more formal, his disastrous impulses now mostly sated by his military training. Liam grabbed onto Ian’s leg as well and, for a moment, Ian found it impossible to move.

            After his younger siblings had finished with him, Ian shrugged off his coat and took a seat at the kitchen counter. Fiona scrambled around from the fridge to the cupboards as she tried to cook several dishes at once.

            “Need any help?” Ian said.

            “You’ll just slow me down,” she said, not even a hint that she was joking in her tone. As she bent down to check on the turkey in the oven, she added, “Where’s Mickey? I thought you said he was coming.”

            “He wanted to take a later train,” Ian said. “Something about Milkovich Christmas Eve tradition being getting wasted as fuck.” He shrugged and dipped a finger into the mashed potatoes before licking it off.

            “That’s disgusting.” Fiona winced as the sound of a crash came from the other room but ignored it. The one good thing about all the kids being old now – with the exception of Liam – was that she could trust them to sort out their own shit every once in a while. “How is it working with Mickey again? You know, especially after all that stuff that you told me a while ago.”

            Ian laughed, shrugged. “It’s pretty good, actually. He’s... he’s happier than he used to be.”

            Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Anything happen between you two?”

            “You really want to know?”

            She shrugged. “Spare me the details, I am still your sister, but if I’m seeing your boyfriend instead of your incredibly homophobic crush, I gotta act different.”

            “Let’s say you’re meeting my incredibly homophobic and closeted boyfriend.”

            “That sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

            Ian didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. He watched Fiona cook for a little longer before slipping off his stool and heading into the living room where the rest of his siblings waited. Liam was sitting in front of the Christmas tree, shaking presents one by one. Carl sat slouched on the couch flipping from Christmas cartoon to Christmas cartoon to Die Hard to Christmas cartoon. And Debbie stood at the back of the room with Frannie in her arms, cooing at the girl.

            Ian walked over and kissed his niece on the cheek – it’d been four years and he still found it weird that he had a niece. As he spoke to her in sweet, soothing tones, the front door opened. He looked up to find Lip walking in, unravelling a scarf from around his neck.

             Ian stiffened and watched his brother, waiting for him to look up. To say their relationship was strained would be a bit of an understatement. Ian had thrown his life down the drain and dragged Lip with him. Even though Lip had pulled himself out – he had taken courses to boost his high school grades, gotten a couple scholarships and went off to college – he still blamed Ian for his life being further behind than it should have been. And he had every right to.

            But when Lip looked up and saw Ian, he only smiled and pulled his brother into a hug. “Hey, man,” he said with a laugh. He clapped Ian hard on the back. “You’re looking good. Like really good. How long have you been clean now?”

            Ian shrugged. “A little over two months.”

            “Wow. I’m proud of you. Real proud.” Lip stepped back and took off his jacket. “Can’t believe you went back to acting though. I vividly remember your exact words being ‘not even if those Disney fags suck my cock.’” He raised a brow. “So, who did the sucking? Was it Manning? Because I’d really like to see that prick get on his knees.”

            “No luck there.” Ian laughed. He lingered awkwardly in the middle of the living room as Lip went to sit down beside Carl. He felt out of place in the house even though he’d lived there his entire life. Maybe he finally got why Mickey never came back to the Southside. After movie sets and constant drug tests and safety, it felt like a trigger bomb just waiting to explode.

            Ian forced himself to settle and took up a spot on the arm of the couch. He made it through half the Rudolph movie before the doorbell rang. Jumping up, he went for the door and opened it to see Mickey and Mandy on the other side. He couldn’t help himself. His heart leaped in his chest. Grabbing Mickey by the back of his neck, he pulled him into a heated kiss and backed right into the living room without letting go of him.

            When he pulled off long minutes later, he smiled and whispered, “Merry Christmas.”

            “Merry Christmas,” Mickey replied, his voice low and sultry in a way that made Ian’s blood rush downwards. Mickey cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know my present to you was coming out to your entire family.”

            “Sorry.” Ian bit his lip. “I’m just happy to see you. You mad?”

            “Not at all.” Mickey pressed forward and kissed him again.

            They broke apart to Mandy’s laughter. Ian let go of Mickey to hug her, kiss her on the cheek. “It’s good to see you again,” he said. “When you moved to New York, I thought we’d lost you for good.”

            “You would’ve too if I could have only gotten a ring on my finger.” Mandy shook her head and sighed. “But now I see my brother’s already stolen you from me?”

            Ian laughed and got the Milkoviches settled in to the living room. He ended up sitting practically in Mickey’s lap – not that that was an accident at all – and whispered most of what he said into Mickey’s ear. The entire time Mickey kept shooting him glances that mixed affection with worry, an expression that turned Ian’s stomach, but he was too high on life to let it bother him. Mickey could be worried. Hell, Mickey could think he was on drugs for all he cared. If he got to sit on Mickey’s lap, nibble on his ear, and play his fingers across his chest, he didn’t care if Mickey thought he was involved in a terrorist plot.

            Fiona came out of the kitchen thirty minutes after they arrived. She hugged Mandy and gave Mickey a slight wave, a smirk brimming on her lips. She got the party started with quick efficiency, getting Liam to hand out the presents, and ending all childish arguments about who got to go first. She even pulled out a camera to make memories. Ian gave Mickey a huge kiss on the cheek when she turned the camera their way and the end result was a Polaroid picture of Mickey laughing like a maniac.

            With all the presents open and the crowd going back to their own business, Ian leaned his lips close to Mickey’s ear and said, “I got you something really special back at my hotel.”

            “Mmm,” Mickey murmured. His eyes were half-closed like he was sleepy drunk without having had a single beer. “Is that what’s stuffed in your closet?”

            “Maybe.”

            “Ian...” Mickey sighed and Ian tensed. Mickey let his hand rub smoothly up Ian’s leg, a comforting gesture as he looked up with serious blue eyes. “I need to talk to you about something. And I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”

            Ian nodded, slow. “I get it. You wanna stay in the closet for your image. It’s not a big deal. I can—”

            “Ian, this isn’t about me. It’s about you.”

            “I’m not on drugs.”

            Mickey shifted out from under Ian and got to his feet. He grabbed Ian’s hand and pulled him out the front door, stopping on the porch. He turned to look Ian in the eyes. “We need to go to the clinic.”

            “What?” Ian said. “Because I didn’t use a condom? Look, sure, I haven’t been tested in a while, but I’m usually safe and I haven’t shot up since the last time I was tested, so I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.

            Mickey let out an annoyed exhale. “No, Ian. Not that.”

            “Then what?”

            “I think you’re manic.”

            Ian blinked. “What?”

            “You’ve been off the rails lately, Ian. And if you say you’re clean, then I believe you, but you’re still not sleeping and who knows how much shit you’ve bought to stuff that closet and you’re still talking way too fast and... I Googled it. They may all be drug symptoms, yeah, but they’re also bipolar symptoms. And your mom—”

            “I know what my mom had,” Ian snapped. “Fuck, Mickey.”

            Mickey grabbed his elbow, stopped him from turning away. “I know you don’t want to hear this,” he said, his voice just a little unsteady. “Fuck, I don’t wanna be right about this, Ian. But you know the kind of shit your mom used to do. And I’ve been looking it up and the drug abuse... a lot of bipolar people use drugs and alcohol to cope. I don’t want you backsliding because there’s something else going on other than addiction.”

            Ian met Mickey’s eyes and softened a little. There was nothing but concern in the other man’s eyes. “Fine,” Ian said. “We can go to a clinic.”

            He stepped to go back inside but Mickey stopped him, again. Mickey said, “I think we should go to the clinic now, Ian. Hopefully get this all sorted out before we start filming again.”

            “And when the studio gets word of this? They were wary of hiring me in the first place, Mick. And I can’t hide this from them when they’re testing my piss every week. Sure, they’ll be fucking confused as to why I’m using Lithium to get high, but if you think—”

            “Ian. You are the best actor on that set.” Mickey’s eyes were bright like fire. “Anyways, they can’t fire you for having a fucking mental disorder. It’s unethical and you could sue their asses for it.”

            Ian nodded.

            “So, the clinic?”

            “Fine. Whatever.”

            Mickey let go of him and waited. With a sigh, Ian headed down the front steps and started down the road. He knew where the community clinic was. Between having every one of Debbie’s pregnancy check-ups there and Ian having ended up there high off his ass more than once, the route was seared into his mind. It sent chills through him to be back there. He hadn’t been back in a while.

            He walked through the glass door, leaving Mickey to catch the door on his own. The nurse at the front desk looked up with a smile. “Mr. Gallagher,” she said. Ian tried to remember her name, failed, and glanced down at her name tag. Nancy. “How nice to see you again. What can I help you with?”

            “I, uh...” Ian dropped his eyes to the countertop.

            Mickey nudged him in the ribs, gave him a curious look.

            Ian shook his head.

            “He thinks he might be bipolar, like his mom,” Mickey said, his voice low despite the fact that the place was empty. “We were hoping you guys had some tests you could run or something?”

            Nancy nodded and stood up. “Of course. Mr. Gallagher, do you want this man to come in with you?”

            Ian shot Mickey a glance and then shook his head, quick. He looked down at his feet while Nancy rummaged for the right paperwork. With a smile, she ushered Ian out of the waiting room and down a long white hallway that he knew too well. As they went, she chattered on about the weather and staff gossip and asked him innocuous questions about his life. Then she stopped beside a white door.

            “You’ve dealt with Dr. Charles before,” she said. “You spent quite a bit of time talking to him about addiction when you were a teenager. Do you remember?”

            Ian nodded.

            “All right. He’ll be with you in a minute.”

            Ian entered the small room with a tight weight in his stomach. He took a seat in one of the two armchairs, tapped his fingers against his knee, and looked around the room. The walls were white and bare. The only other furniture in the room was a small desk with a computer on it, the Windows logo bouncing around the screen. Ian started to regret not asking Mickey to come in with him but he didn’t know what Dr. Charles would ask and he didn’t know what he didn’t want Mickey to know.

            Dr. Charles entered a few minutes later, a smile on his wrinkled face. He’d seemed to age two years for every year Ian had been away from him. “Ian,” he said as he took his seat, resting his clipboard on his knees. “What a pleasant surprise to see you again.”

            “Don’t doctors kind of hope they won’t see their patients again?”

            “We both know you stopped coming to sessions against my wishes,” he said but he didn’t seem upset. “Can you tell me what’s brought you back?”

            “I, um, well,” Ian began. He took a deep breath and spoke to his feet. “I might be bipolar.”

            “Bipolar?”

            “My mom has it and I’ve been... I’ve been really fucking happy lately and I don’t see why that’s a problem but my... friend thinks it’s an issue and with my family history, it’s just... he wanted me to come.”

            “Ian.” Dr. Charles waited until Ian looked up at him. “I want you to know that having a mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. No matter what we figure out here today, you have to keep that in mind.”

            Ian nodded.

            “Now, let me pull up a little questionnaire and we’ll see what we find, okay?”

            Ian nodded again. He waited for Dr. Charles to wake up his computer and find the right sheet. Then he started with the questions. The first ones were easy – name, date of birth, height, sex, weight – but then they started to get a little harder. He had to describe his symptoms and really, he just started listing off the things Mickey had said he was doing. He hadn’t even realized most of it. Sure, he knew that sleeping three or four hours a night wasn’t normal and that he’d been wasting his money, but he thought it was all the hype of the movie set. Even when the director told him to speak slower, he always thought it was his nerves getting the better of him. He didn’t think he’d ever done anything like Monica, nothing worthy of having people compare him to her.

            “Hypersexuality?” Dr. Charles said.

            “What?”

            “Hypersexuality,” he repeated. “Having a higher sex drive than normal.”

            Ian stared at him for a long moment, nausea curling in his stomach. He’d been on Grindr way more than usual. He’d jacked off maybe seven times yesterday to the thought of Mickey. How many times had he told Mickey he’d just wanted to be friends only to crumble under the weight of his lips? Had that all been the illness? Had none of that been his feelings for Mickey? Was it just about sex? He thought he might start hyperventilating. He didn’t want his first time with Mickey to have been about an overblown libido, didn’t want to go on meds just to realize he’d never wanted Mickey at all.

            “No,” Ian lied. “Nothing like that.”

            Dr. Charles typed it in. A few questions later, he finished the questions and turned to Ian. “Well, Ian, it takes more than a cursory assessment to properly diagnose bipolar disorder. Furthermore, there are different types and which one you have won’t become clear without more therapy.”

            “But?”

            “From what you’ve said to me today mixed with your family history, I would say there is a strong chance you are bipolar.” He held up a hand to stop Ian from interrupting him. “I’m going to start you on a low dose of Lithium and I’ll need you to talk to Nancy at the front desk to set up weekly appointments. It’s all right, Ian. We’ll get through this together.”

            Ian was too numb to even nod. He got up from his seat and let Dr. Charles lead him back to the waiting room. Mickey stood immediately but Ian was already moving. He barrelled out the door, breathing hard, and only stopped two blocks away to catch his breath. A few minutes later, Mickey caught up with him.

            “What the fuck, man?” Mickey sounded out of breath. “You okay? What happened in there?”

            “Forget it,” Ian said.

            “You just burst out of there like a fucking race horse and you want me to forget it?” Mickey grabbed Ian’s shoulder and turned him to face him. “What’s up? What did the doctor say?”

            Ian bit his lip hard. More than anything, he wanted to shake Mickey off, yell at him, and walk away. He didn’t want Mickey to know. He didn’t want Mickey to worry. And he definitely didn’t want Mickey Googling more shit just to find out that Ian’s sex drive had nothing to do with him at all.

            “Ian,” Mickey said, soft. “I’m here. Whatever’s going on, I’m here.”

            “He said maybe.”

            “Maybe?”

            Ian shrugged. “It’s hard to diagnose apparently, but he wants me to come to therapy and start Lithium and... fuck. Mickey, I can’t do it.”

            “Sure you can. Maybe not here, but we’ll get you a therapist closer to work and—”

            “No, Mick, I can’t fucking live like this. I can’t be bipolar. I just can’t.”

            Mickey’s eyes widened a little. “What are you saying, Ian?”

            Ian shook his head, tried to blink back the tears. “I’m just... My family already thinks I’m Frank. I can’t be Monica, too.”

            “You’re Ian,” Mickey said. He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Ian, holding him tight. “Fuck your family. And fuck what they think of you. You are not your parents, Ian. You are you and you’re a lot fucking better of a person than they are.”

            “You sure about that?”

            Mickey nodded and pulled away. “Now, come on. Let’s go back there and book those therapy sessions, okay?”

            “Okay.” Ian reached out for Mickey’s hand and wrapped their fingers together. To his surprise, Mickey let him and didn’t pull away for the whole walk back to the clinic.


	17. Chapter 17

Mickey woke up without opening his eyes. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of Ian’s chest against his back, feel his breath trickle across his neck. Mickey had never felt so warm and happy upon waking up in his life.

            True, things could be better. He could be wrapped in his own blankets instead of the hotels’ flimsy sheets and he could have his own alarm clock, his kitchen and his apartment waiting for him. But he didn’t care. What mattered most in that moment were Ian’s arms wrapped around him, the safety he felt in the other man’s arms. What mattered most was that despite everything, he and Ian were in a good place.

            It was the first Monday in January and their first day back on set. Ian’s meds had settled, Mandy had gone home, and the hotel had become their de facto home. Mickey took a deep breath, then pried his eyes open to the gentle light of the sun threading through the thin curtains. He glanced at the clock – a little before six – and turned around in Ian’s arms. He pressed a kiss to Ian’s nose, to the space just above his lips, and then gave him a real kiss.

            Ian responded sleepily, his lips moving to mutter words rather than kiss back. After a moment, he laughed and managed, “It’s so early, Mick.”

            “We gotta get to set,” Mickey said between kisses. “We have work today.”

            “I’m so tired.”

            “Bet I can wake you up.” Mickey kissed Ian harder and crawled on top of him, letting his weight settle onto the taller man’s body. He curled one hand into Ian’s hair and pressed the other between their bodies. He let his hand roam across Ian’s torso, playing with his nipples and skidding across his ribcage. Prying Ian’s lips open, he let morning breath wash over his face but wasn’t deterred in the least. Ian, whether minty clean or two days unshowered, was his favourite flavour.

            “Mickey,” Ian said, somewhere between a grumble and a laugh. He caught Mickey’s chin with his hand and kissed him harder, harder, harder until Mickey felt like his jaw might break. Then Ian flipped them over so he was on top and grinding down. Mickey let out a desperate moan.

            They kissed for a while longer. Ian grabbed Mickey’s ass and kneaded it as he bit down Mickey’s neck. “Not too hard,” Mickey mumbled. “Make-up girls will ask questions.”

            “Tell ‘em you got lucky,” Ian whispered. He sucked at the juncture between Mickey’s neck and shoulder, almost bit down when Mickey snaked a hand into his underwear and put a hand around his limp dick. “Sorry,” Ian said.

            “I know it’s the drugs.” Mickey started to move his hand, hopeful and not hopeful at the same time.

            Too soon, Ian batted him away and crawled off. Sighing, Ian ran a hand down his face. “This fucking sucks,” he said.

            Mickey sat up. “Don’t worry about it. Your body will get used to the meds eventually and—”

            “No,” Ian said. He looked at Mickey through his fingers. “It sucks that I can finally fuck you, that you’re finally mine to pound into a goddamn mattress, and I only got to do it _once_ before the goddamn meds took my dick away.”

            Mickey almost laughed, caught himself by biting his lips. “You got it up a couple of times after.”

            “For not nearly long enough.”

            Now Mickey did laugh but he shot his boyfriend an apologetic look while he did. “Hey,” he said. He grabbed Ian’s face and pulled him into a short, passionate kiss. “This isn’t just about sex. I love you. You know that.”

            Ian rolled his eyes. “But it’d be nice for it to be about sex.”

            Mickey shrugged.

            They sat in silence for a moment before Ian’s eyes lit up and a mischievous smile spread over his lips.

            “What?” Mickey said, wary.

            “You’re hard, right?”

            “Yeah...”

            “Touch yourself.”

            Mickey raised an eyebrow. “You could do it for me.”

            Ian shook his head. He pulled the covers back so that Mickey lay bare before him and spread Mickey’s knees. Then he sat back on his haunches. “Touch yourself and I’ll tell you how I’d like you to do it.”

            Mickey forced a laugh even as his blood ran downwards. “This one of the weird kinks you picked up when you were prostituting yourself?”

            “You like it.”

            “I’d like it better if you sucked me off.”

            Ian shook his head. “You don’t get to make demands. You do what I say and if you’re good, maybe I’ll give you a reward.”

            Mickey licked his lips. “Fine.” He lowered his hand to his dick but didn’t touch it until Ian nodded. He grunted at the pressure, the friction, but refused to moan under his own ministrations. Sure, he knew what he liked and he liked Ian watching him, but he was an actor, for crying out loud. He didn’t need to masturbate.

            “Faster,” Ian said.

            Mickey sped up, kept his eyes on Ian who was staring intently at his dick. The attention made Mickey go a little red. It occurred to him that despite the fact they’d been doing this for a while, this might have been the first time Ian was getting a good look at his body. The thought made Mickey’s skin crawl a little. He knew he looked good – he was on his movie diet, had been working out every day – but old insecurities came back when he was alone. And being with Ian was a lot like being alone sometimes.

            “A little more pressure.” Ian’s voice had dropped an octave, sultry and smooth.

            Mickey bit back on a groan as he ran his hand up and down his shaft. He swiped at the slit when he got close, almost bucked his hips off the bed. He was finding it harder to keep watching Ian. His eyes wanted to close. He wanted to lose himself in the sensation, the feeling, forget who he was thinking about as he touched himself. Shame crept into the pit of his stomach and he tried his best to block it out, but it was always easier to be unashamed when Ian was touching him, kissing him, reminding him why it was okay to want this.

            “Slow down.” Ian touched his thighs, his fingers tickling along Mickey’s skin. “Slower.”

            Mickey’s fingers started to crawl along his shaft, an odd tickling sensation on his hot, pulsing member. “Ian,” he whispered. The word got his boyfriend’s attention, clear green eyes on him for the first time since they’d started. Mickey felt his nerves calm even as his body got harder to control. “I’m close.”

            “Then stop.”

            Mickey stilled his hand and looked up at Ian. He hoped he looked curious but knew he probably just looked like a hot, desperate mess. Ian raised an eyebrow and Mickey removed his hand completely, bit down on his lip to stop from whimpering. Ian brushed a hair off Mickey’s forward, then leaned in to kiss him.

            “You’re doing so good,” Ian whispered.

            “Fuck you,” Mickey said but without nearly enough bite to it.

            “So good.” Ian’s breath pooled across his face and Mickey let out a whine. Ian kissed him again, scraped his teeth against his bottom lip. “You’re so beautiful, Mick.”

            “Ian,” Mickey groaned. “Just fucking do something. Or let me do something. Please.”

            Ian smirked, a look that should have been pure evil but was filled with affection. He shifted down the bed and wrapped his lips around the head of Mickey’s cock. He tongued the slit before sliding up at a slow, smooth pace, his nails digging into Mickey’s thighs. Mickey stopped controlling his noises, let out a miserable moan and pulled at Ian’s hair.

            Ian worked fast, swirling his tongue and taking all of Mickey into his mouth without so much as a wince. When Mickey warned him he was close, Ian simply redoubled his efforts and swallowed Mickey’s come with ease.

            He pulled off and licked his lips.

            Mickey watched his tongue, the red mess of his mouth. It took him a moment to meet his boyfriend’s eyes again, a moment longer to shut his jaw. “You’re really good at that,” Mickey managed, his voice hoarse.

            “You done that before?” Ian asked.

            Mickey rolled his eyes. “I’m an actor, Ian.”

            “Yeah, but I bet that’s the first time you’ve actually enjoyed it.”

            “Fuck off,” Mickey said, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks.

            “I don’t care.” Ian kissed him and Mickey tasted himself on his tongue. “I love you and I don’t care if you’ve never been with a man before or if you’ve been with a hundred.”

            “You’re the one who’s been with a hundred.”

            Ian smiled and slipped off the bed.

            Mickey followed him with his eyes as he walked across the room. “You ever been with a girl?” he asked.

            “Depends,” Ian said. He disappeared into the bathroom. “Do threesomes count?”

            “If you were with the girl, then yeah.”

            Ian didn’t respond. A minute later, he came out with a wet towel and crawled back into the bed. He wiped Mickey down, gently, and Mickey hummed as warm water dripped down his thighs. Ian kissed him again, lips soft and curious. Mickey tilted his head to get a better angle, gripped Ian’s chin in his hand and pulled him closer.

            Ian laughed a little. “We gotta go.”

            “In a bit.”

            “No, we—” Ian laughed as he tried to form words with Mickey nipping at his lips. He pushed his boyfriend back into the pillows. “We wasted a lot of time. We’ve gotta go. Now.”

            Mickey groaned but slipped out of bed almost immediately. He went to the bathroom, got dressed, and was ready to head downstairs before Ian was. He leaned up against the door as Ian dressed, every inch of his alabaster skin slowly getting covered much to Mickey’s disappointment. He almost suggested Ian go commando but considering they were taping a kid’s movie and Ian’s dick was massive, that wasn’t the best idea.

            Ian finished dressing, kissed Mickey, and then stepped out the door. “You tell the driver to pick you up here?”

            “Yeah,” he said. “Fucking hard as shit to make up an excuse for that, by the way.”

            Ian smiled as he pressed the elevator button. “What? You’d prefer to sneak out on me in the morning rather than do what we just did?”

            “We could wake up even earlier, do that, and then I could sneak out.”

            “Getting up this early is hell,” Ian said.

            Mickey snorted. “I get up so much earlier to stage sneak outs from Svet’s.”

            They stepped onto the elevator and Ian hit the lobby button. “How is Svet?” he asked. “I mean, like, does she know?”

            Mickey shrugged. “She knew at the club. I don’t know why she wouldn’t know now.”

            They rode the rest of the way down in silence and kept a reasonable distance in the lobby. Mickey ducked into the car first, said hello to the driver, and watched Ian slide in beside him. They kept the middle portion of the seat empty between them. Mickey felt nerves rise through his body, up through the soles of his feet and right into his throat. Now that they had to be on set again, the whole thing between them felt so much more real. Hotel rooms and Christmas day and no work had felt like a vacation. A vacation from Mickey’s real life. So of course he could do whatever he wanted. But now that they were mixing that with work, it felt like galaxies had collided.

            “You okay?” Ian whispered as they got to the studio gate.

            Mickey nodded. He wanted and didn’t want Ian to reach out and grab his hand. All his emotions suddenly crashed together, like two trains on the same tracks. He wanted Ian. He wanted Ian to comfort him, soothe him, take his hand and kiss his knuckles. He also wanted to hide. He wanted a secret buried deep inside of him, no concrete evidence to back that secret up, and a guarantee that no one would ever find out. When he looked at Ian, he thought maybe the redhead could see all of that in his eyes.

            “Everything will be fine,” Ian said. “Nothing’s different than it was before.”

            Mickey almost laughed. Everything was different than it was before. But he kept his mouth shut as they got out of the car and headed onto set together like they had every single day. Ian started talking, easy conversation flowing across his lips, and Mickey found himself laughing as they headed towards their dressing rooms. The butterflies in his stomach calmed. They went their separate ways and Mickey easily fell into the morning routine. Costume, make-up, schedule run through, first scene.

            Of course, that scene was with Ian and it was a surprisingly intimate moment between their two characters. It was the climax of the movie – the moment when they admitted they’d grown apart and needed to move on with their lives – and they were both supposed to cry. Mickey had dreaded the scene since he’d first read it. He couldn’t cry on command. It was his biggest weakness as an actor.

            But he should have been nervous for different reasons. Now that he and Ian were actually fucking, the director seemed a thousand percent more annoyed with them. He barely let them get through thirty seconds of the scene before he stopped, yelled at them, and told them to start it all over. Mickey did his best to keep his expression neutral but even that didn’t appease the director.

            “You’re supposed to be _friends_ ,” he said. “And as friends, you love each other. _Platonically._ Can you two do platonic? Or is the eye-fucking as platonic as you get?”

            Mickey flipped him off. Ian said nothing.

            “Go again.”

            Mickey tried to bring up all his friendly feelings towards Ian. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember a time when he was friends with Ian and not completely head-over-heels for him. Even digging really deep down, to the first day they’d met as little kids, he remembered appreciating Ian’s smile, his freckles, his ease in front of the cameras.

            “Cut! Holy fucking hell. Are you _trying_ to murder me?”

            “If it’s so fucking hard to film us as friends, why not change the end of the movie?” Mickey snapped. “Let’s rewrite this whole fucking scene. They decide their business is over but ultimately admit their undying love for each other and end up fucking on the sofa. Would you prefer that?”

            “Well, it’d be fucking easier to film. You idiots might even get it in one take.”

            Mickey bit his tongue.

            “Honestly, I have never worked with a professional actor who was worse at keeping it in his goddamn pants. And I’ve worked with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie!”

            Mickey took a step forward, finally ready to punch the guy in the face – after all, so much of the movie was already shot, what were they going to do? Fire him? – but stopped when Ian’s hand grasped his shoulder.

            “Can we take five?” Ian said.

            The director threw up his hands. “Do what you want.”

            Mickey closed his eyes and didn’t move, didn’t even shake Ian’s hand off. He had to find some way to get his fucking face under control or today was going to be downright torturous. He wasn’t sure what was worse: the director making fun of him when it was just a crush or the director making fun of him now that they were together and in love. He thought maybe they were equal, if different, hells.

            After a minute, he started off the set, Ian at his heels. He walked into his dressing room and let Ian come in after him. They left the door open, just in case. Mickey flopped down on his couch and looked up at Ian with a bored look. “You having fun?” he said.

            Ian smiled. “It’s nice to have outside confirmation.”

            “Fuck you.”

            “Don’t worry. No one believes that asshole anyways.”

            Mickey hummed in agreement as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He frowned when he saw seven missed calls from his publicist and a text that said: _CALL IMMEDIATELY._ With a glance at Ian, he swiped to call her back and put the phone to his ear.

            “Mickey, thank god.” She sounded a little out of breath.

            “What’s up?”

            “I’m so sorry. I did everything I could. I bought every picture I could find. I threatened magazine editors. I tried to Photoshop the image to use it as the original and call theirs a fake. I did literally everything, Mickey. You have to believe me.”

            Mickey felt his heart rate speed up. Licking his lips, he forced himself to stay calm. “What are you talking about, Liz?”

            She took a deep breath. “There are pictures of the kiss.”

            “What kiss?”

            “You and Ian? Under the mistletoe?”

            Mickey froze. He swore for a moment not one system in his body was working. “When?” he managed.

            “As soon as the new magazines go out,” she said. “Tomorrow, most likely.”


	18. Chapter 18

Ian jumped back as Mickey threw his phone at a wall. “Whoa,” he said. He fought the urge to raise his hands in surrender, his heart suddenly beating fast. But he’d dealt with mad men before. He’d dealt with men much worse than Mickey when they were mad. Taking a deep breath, Ian said, “Mick? What happened?”

            Mickey shook his head and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. A sound like a smothered laugh escaped him. “Fuck. Fuck, Ian. Just... fuck.”

            “What did Liz say?”

            Mickey sniffed. He raised his eyes to meet Ian’s and Ian felt his blood run cold. If the director could see the way Mickey was looking at him now, he wouldn’t have to yell at them for looking in love. He’d have to yell at them because Mickey looked like he was going to kill him. Mickey shook his head, said nothing.

            Ian swallowed hard. “Does someone know?” It was the worst thing he could think of, the only thing that would make Mickey this upset, this fast. “It doesn’t matter. They’re just rumours. You’ve squashed worse.”

            “It’s not just rumours.” Mickey chewed on his lip. “They have pictures.”

            “From where?”

            “Outside the bar. The fucking stupid mistletoe.”

            Mickey’s phone started to buzz from its place on the floor. His glare was downright murderous.

            “Does it really...” Ian took a deep breath. He wanted to rewind the day until they were back in bed and just stay there under the covers where it felt like the world was so far away. There he didn’t have to think about how deep in the closet Mickey was or how far away they were from being a real couple. From Christmas Eve until yesterday, things had been perfect. Ian wished he could blow that bubble around them again. “Does it really matter?”

            Mickey’s glare moved targets. “Does it really matter? Are you fucking kidding me, Ian?”

            “No one cares anymore, Mick. We’re not children on the Disney channel anymore. We’re adults.” Ian fought to keep his voice steady, strong. It was hard when Mickey was looking at him like he’d suddenly grown a second head. “Hollywood isn’t the same homophobic place it was a decade ago. Being gay isn’t that big of a deal. In fact, it’s fucking fashionable at this point.”

            “It’s not who I am, Ian.”

            “It is who you are! You’re gay, Mickey. You’re gay.”

            “I know I’m fucking gay, you stupid shit.” Mickey sighed and started to pace. “I’m saying the person you’re talking about, the fashionable gay star on the red carpet, that’s not me, Ian. That’s not my image. That’s not what I do for a living.”

            Ian opened his mouth to respond, then had to admit, “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

            “Gay actors, Ian. That’s what I’m talking about. Gay actors get the shitty sitcom roles and the side roles in rom-coms and the one or two that are really good and shut their mouths about their sexualities? They manage parts on crappy teen dramas.” Mickey shrugged. “That’s not the kind of acting I do. I’m an action star. People pay to see me shoot guns and fuck women. They don’t wanna watch that shit knowing I’m picturing your pasty white ass instead of some chick’s vagina.”

            “Change your image, then.”

            “I don’t want to.”

            “Why not? You fucking hate your job, Mickey. You hate being an actor, you told me yourself. So what does it matter if you’re getting paid to shoot a machine gun on a movie screen or kiss a couple guys in a shitty sitcom? It’s still money.”

            Mickey shook his head, eyes crinkled in surprise and disgust. “I don’t want to kiss other guys, Ian. I want to kiss _you_.”

            Ian sighed and crossed his arms. “Just not on a magazine cover?”

            Mickey licked his lips. “I don’t think you understand how much of my career is built on reputation. I get roles because casting directors think I’m still some Southside trash bully who’ll be convincing on screen as a gangster. If I come out, if people see these pictures... no one’s gonna believe that coming from me. No one’s gonna think I’m tough or badass or can kill a guy with a bottle opener.”

            “You can kill a guy with a bottle opener.”

            “Not the point.”

            Ian settled back against the wall, his eyes following Mickey as he walked the length of the room again and again. He knew their five minutes were up. Any second now some poor PA would knock on the door and get the full force of Mickey’s wrath.

            “I don’t know what any of that has to do with being gay,” Ian said. “Gay men aren’t automatically weaker.”

            “They are in Hollywood.”

            “But that’s such bullshit! Don’t you want to change the scene? Don’t you want to show them your sexuality doesn’t define who you are?”

            “You think I’ll have a chance?” Mickey laughed, short and bitter. “The change will be overnight, Ian. The pictures will hit and suddenly all of the movie roles I’ve been offered will be pulled. The next set of scripts I’ll get will be for sitcoms and rom-coms. Interviewers will start to ask me about my opinion on gay rights and the LGBT community and what the fuck am I supposed to say? I don’t know anything. And when that becomes painfully clear, when people know for sure that I don’t have the righteous anger it takes to be a gay icon, I’ll be wiped right off the fucking slate. No more acting, no more money. I’ll be type cast into oblivion.”

            “You don’t even like acting.”

            “It pays the fucking bills.”

            “And how much money do you have hidden away, Mick? How much have you been saving? Because you’re not exactly living in a fucking mansion with gold-plated teeth.” Ian tried to catch Mickey’s eye but failed. “Are you telling me you can’t live the rest of your life on what you’ve already made? Or maybe, what you’ve already made and some slightly shittier job that you might actually like?”

            “And what? Be the mechanic everyone knows as that washed up movie star? The gay guy who couldn’t handle the spotlight and ran?” Mickey spat on the floor. His phone buzzed again. “No. I may not like acting but I like the movies I’m in. I like my life, Ian. And I’m sorry, but I’m not throwing it all away for you.”

            “I wouldn’t ask you to.” Ian forced out the words even though he felt like his heart had just shattered in his chest. He forced himself to breathe, steady himself. Right here and right now wasn’t about him. “Not for me. But for you.”

            “The fuck does that mean?”

            A knock came on the door followed by a small voice. “Excuse me? The director wants you back on set.”

            “Tell him to fuck himself in the ass,” Mickey snapped.

            Ian sighed and turned to the door. He opened it only enough to poke his head out and meet the eyes of the terrified girl on the other side. “We’re kind of in the middle of something. Maybe ask him if he can start in on the Christie/Tabitha scene?”

            She nodded and backed away quick, still terrified.

            Ian closed the door but didn’t turn back to Mickey.

            “What’d you mean when you said you’d ask me to do it for me?”

            Ian turned and met Mickey’s eyes. He shrugged. “You’ve been in the closet your whole life, Mick. Ever since you were a kid, you’ve been fucking terrified to tell anyone. You’ve been terrified to let yourself feel what you feel, to love who you want to love. You can’t tell me that hasn’t taken a toll on you. You can’t tell me that’s fun for you.”

            “It’s liveable.”

            “But that’s not really living, is it?”

            Mickey stared at him for a moment and then cursed. He flopped back onto the couch and let his head hit the wall. “I can’t do this, Ian. I just... I’m not ready. I might not ever be ready.”

            “Right.” Ian bit his lip. “Okay. Then don’t do it.”

            Mickey laughed. “Wouldn’t that be great? If I could just decide not to like there aren’t pictures coming out tomorrow.”

            “Who cares?”

            “The millions of people who are about to see me with my tongue down your throat, Ian.”

            Ian shook his head and walked over to Mickey. “No. Fuck them. They’re wrong.”

            “There’s picture proof.”

            “Of what? That you kissed me? Who fucking cares?” Ian scoffed. “There was _mistletoe_ for crying out loud. If that’s not an excuse, I don’t know what is.”

            Mickey raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

            “It was late. We were drunk. We stumbled under some mistletoe and you thought, fuck it. It’s tradition, isn’t it? And I’m your best friend. Should you really not kiss me just because I’m a man? What kind of fucking homophobic world do we live in where two guys can’t even kiss as a goddamn joke without people jumping down their throats?”

            “Everyone knows you’re gay.”

            “Which is why you went for it. You knew I wouldn’t mind. In fact, I’d probably enjoy it. Are you not allowed to kiss your friend platonically just because he’s gay? It was a joke, Mick. Just a joke. Maybe you went a little too far, maybe you forgot you’re a celebrity and you can’t just go around kissing people, but...” Ian shrugged. “We were drunk. There was mistletoe. Frankly, you’re disgusted that people just jump to conclusions about your sexuality because you’re comfortable kissing guys. You’re a good ally. That’s it.”

            Mickey stared at him for a long moment. “You’d be okay with that?”

            “It’s not about me.”

            “Because you don’t sound okay with it,” Mickey continued like he hadn’t even said anything. “You sound pissed as all fucking hell.”

            Ian took a deep breath, shrugged. He sat down on the couch beside Mickey and offered his hand. Mickey linked their fingers together and squeezed. Ian said, “Am I happy that my boyfriend wants to keep me a secret? No, not really. Do I understand? I’m trying to. But Mick, bottom line is, if you don’t want to come out, you don’t fucking have to. You don’t owe these people anything and they don’t get to decide when you make major life decisions. So, if it helps, say that it was a joke between friends. I’ll back you up.”

            Mickey leaned in to peck his lips. “Thank you.”

            Ian squeezed his hand tight. “We should get back to set.”

            Mickey shook his head. “We have a while.” He kissed Ian again, harder and longer. “Let me show you how much I fucking love you.”

            Ian laughed and leaned in to the kiss. “I love you too.” Then he pulled back. “But we’re going to get caught in here. And that’s not gonna help anyone.”

            Mickey nodded. “Okay. Let me run your idea by Liz and I’ll meet you out there?”

            Ian agreed and left the dressing room. After he closed the door, he leaned up against it and forced himself to breathe. He knew he’d done the right thing. He’d offered Mickey the only out he had and Mickey had taken it. Ian really hadn’t thought that Mickey would take it.

            He forced himself to go about the rest of the day as if nothing was wrong, as if everything was exactly as it should be. Like the director was full of shit and there wasn’t a picture of them kissing coming out on the front page of every magazine tomorrow. The thought made Ian’s stomach turn. The last time he’d been on a magazine cover, he’d been lying halfway out of a limo, vomit trickling down his shirt, an insane smile on his lips. There’d been a guy in the limo holding his legs to stop him from cracking his skull on the pavement. No matter how long Ian had looked at that picture for, he couldn’t remember the guy’s name or even having seen his face before. He still remembered the headline: CHILD STAR CRACKS. It hadn’t been the first bad picture by far but it was the last. The one they’d taken before finally giving up on him.


	19. Chapter 19

Mickey woke up the next day in his own bed without Ian. He had barely spoken to Ian since their semi-fight in his dressing room. He didn’t know what to say to him. Ian wasn’t mad at him, wasn’t even really disappointed, he’d just seemed... upset. And Mickey had no idea how to make him feel better without giving up everything he’d done with his life. Mickey loved Ian. He loved him a lot. But he didn’t love him more than his career, his success, his life outside of the Southside, who he was without the ghetto surrounding him.

            Mickey reached for his phone, intent on calling or texting Ian to see how he was doing before he got to set. Instead, he got a screen full of notifications and bile in his throat. He noticed Ian had already texted him: _Pictures just hit the web. Be safe <3 _Mickey felt tears prick his eyes and he wiped them away. With shaking hands, he opened his other messages.

            He had two dozen texts and emails from Liz. Reminders about the press conference they’d scheduled to deal with the repercussions as fast as possible and well wishes. Svet had texted six times. Twice just going over the details of their plan – she was to toe the party line, refuse to give up that their relationship was fake, and avoid saying too much in case it conflicted with Mickey’s statement. In return, Mickey would double his appearances with her and get her a part in the new James Bond movie at his side . The other four messages from her were a mix of words of wisdom and heartfelt pleas for him to be okay.

            Everything else was social media notifications. Mickey opened Twitter and was bombarded with magazines asking for him to comment on the pictures, “fans” calling him all kinds of names, and people telling him they’d stopped following his account. He checked his follower number. Down three million overnight.

            Mickey turned his phone off. Slipping out of bed, he dressed in his best avoid-the-paparazzi clothing. He wore his black hoodie, his worst jeans, and dark sunglasses. Then he went out the back way, hoping to avoid the press camped out front.

            Of course, he’d lived in the building long enough that the press knew about the back exit. Mickey ended up with his head down pushing through a crowd of cameras to get out of the small alley. They were all yelling at him but he couldn’t make out much. He hopped into the car waiting for him and forced himself to breathe while it raced down the street.

            “Are you all right, Mr. Milkovich?”

            Mickey looked up into the rear-view mirror to find the driver watching him. The guy had worked for him for a couple of years now but Mickey had never gotten his name. “Just fine,” Mickey said. Then, because of the panic building inside him, he asked, “Have you ever been offered a bribe to... I don’t know, give away my secrets or take me somewhere against my will?”

            The driver laughed. “Mr. Milkovich, I can assure you, you pay me much more than any tabloid ever could.”

            Mickey nodded and willed those words to comfort him. They didn’t. It’s not like the driver could really do much at this point – the photos were already out there. Mickey itched to look at his phone again or at least turn it on, but he knew it was better this way. He had the press conference set up. He only had to get through the morning and at lunch he would put all the rumours to rest.

            The moment Mickey walked onto set he felt the mood change. Ian had come on his own, figuring stopping to pick him up today probably wouldn’t be the best idea, and Mickey immediately wished he hadn’t. If Ian was standing beside him, Mickey thought maybe he’d have been able to take on the world. But as it was, even on a closed set with most of his face covered, Mickey felt exposed like a nerve.

            He forced himself to move through the quiet gawkers. No one openly stared, just stole quick glances and whispered as he passed. Mickey prayed to a god he didn’t believe in to smite him so he wouldn’t have to last the morning with these people. He wondered if he could get away with offering his statement here first, dispelling the rumours on set before anywhere else, but more likely than not, some gopher would record it on their phone and it would go viral hours before the press conference. And Mickey needed more coverage than that if he was going to keep his career.

            Mickey didn’t see Ian until they wound up on set together. Ian said nothing, just shot Mickey a glance that could have meant any of a dozen things. Mickey simply nodded, hoped that was answer enough.

            The director waltzed onto the set a few minutes later. Upon seeing them, he spread his arms wide and placed a devastatingly snake-like smile on his lips. “My boys,” he said, voice dripping in honey and sarcasm, “What have I done, what could I have done, to deserve such a great present from the universe? Undeniable proof that the two of you are fucking. It’s beautiful. It’s iconic. It’s honestly the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me.”

            He clapped a hand on each of their cheeks. “Just look at you two. Trying to keep this from me like some sort of secret when I knew all along. Hell, I knew nine years ago when you two were barely fetuses! Oh, to have the world fall at my feet and redeem me! I’ve never been happier. I’ve never known happiness this great.”

            Mickey’s hands curled into fists.

            The director turned his way, his smile twisting into something sinister. “And _you_. Oh, people kept telling me that _Mickey Milkovich,_ the James Bond of his generation, the ladies man, boyfriend of Svetlana Petrov, could not _possibly_ be gay. How could he be? When we have all those uncomfortable sex scenes of him with women? Oh, no, Mickey Milkovich is no fag. No fag at all. And then this morning” – he laughed – “every magazine in town has a picture of you kissing none other than out and proud Ian fucking Gallagher.” He started to clap, nice and slow.

            Mickey shot Ian a look.

            Ian shrugged. “Go ahead.”

            Mickey decked the director. He stumbled back, blood on his lips and dripping over his smile. Mickey hit him again, felt something break beneath his knuckles. When the director fell, he dropped on top of him and kept punching him while the man laughed and laughed and laughed. He didn’t stop until he felt someone pulling him back, then he went willingly, hands in the air like a surrender. The security guard let go of him as soon as he was sure Mickey was done.

            “That was stupid,” Ian said.

            “You didn’t stop me.”

            “If I had, I’d’ve done it myself. And we both know you have more currency here.”

            Mickey snorted, the slightest of smiles on his face as he watched security pull the director to his feet. The man still had a manic smile on his face but at least it was properly bloodied and bruised. His nose had shifted to one side and a couple of his teeth were cracked or missing. Mickey allowed his smile to widen.

            A producer cleared her throat. Both Ian and Mickey looked her way. Without any expression, she said, “We’re not going to be able to shoot for a couple of hours at the least. And that’s only if he doesn’t press charges. I suggest you two go to your dressing rooms to wait.”

            Mickey gave her a wicked smile, liked the way she flinched. He really had missed being someone people were afraid of. As soon as she was gone, they took her advice and disappeared into Mickey’s dressing room. Ian sat him down, found a first-aid kit, and started to bandage his bloody knuckles.

            “You know,” Ian said, “if that gets out, it’s not going to back the ‘it was a joke’ story very well.”

            “I’ve wanted to punch that guy since day one. Everyone knows it.”

            “I guess.”

            “Hey.” Mickey tilted Ian’s chin up with his good hand and looked him in the eyes. “This isn’t about you, remember? If we lived in a different world, hell, if I was a different person, I’d come out for you in an instant.”

            “I know.” Ian kissed him, backed up just enough to lean their foreheads together. “I’m just sorry this is happening.”

            “Not your fault. I kissed you.”

            “I got you drunk. Let you convince me to walk back to the hotel. Did nothing to stop you. Even egged you on by telling you your father died.”

            Mickey laughed. He pressed another kiss to Ian’s lips, liking the way his smile felt against his face. He wrinkled up his nose against Ian’s. “We’re gonna get through this just fine. Trust me on that, okay?”

            “I’d trust you with my life.”

            Mickey hummed in pleasure, stole one last kiss, and then let Ian get back to bandaging his hand. It didn’t take too much longer so they spent most of the morning curled together on that couch, semi-waiting for the director to come back but mostly waiting for noon. When the hands of the clock hit twelve, Ian sighed and Mickey got to his feet.

            “I’ll see you soon,” Mickey said. He kissed Ian hard. “No matter what I say out there, I love you, okay?”

            “I love you too.”

            Mickey tried not to hear the fear, the slight loathing, in Ian’s voice. He forced a smile before he turned to the door and walked out. No one whispered when he passed now, too scared of what he’d do. He left set, jumped in his car, and stayed silent the whole way to the press conference.

            Liz had set it up on the top of some office building that supposedly sponsored him. Not that he knew their name or what they sold or even what he’d done to help them. He did too many commercials a year to really know anything about what he endorsed. He rode the elevator to the roof, glad that whatever company this was, they had a very tall building and a smooth elevator that calmed his nerves.

            Liz met him at the elevator doors, handed him a copy of his statement, and started talking. Most of it went in one ear and out the other. Mickey nodded at all the right points – years of this shit had taught him how to look like he was listening to Liz – and smiled when she finished with her usual pep talk. He stopped before stepping up onto the makeshift stage, looked out at the crowd of reporters waiting for him. He wondered what they had been told about what he was going to say. He wondered how many of them would believe him.

            After Liz finished with her speech about what could and couldn’t be asked of him, she invited him to the stage. Mickey climbed the steps and took his spot at the podium without once looking out at the press. Then, forcing a big smile, he looked up to the camera flashes. He breathed through it and held up a hand to silence them.

            “Thank you all for being here today,” Mickey said, his voice too loud in the microphone. “I’m glad to see that so many of you came. As you know, this morning a picture of me and Ian Gallagher kissing hit the press.”

            A clatter of noise and camera flashes interrupted him. He looked down at his speech until they quieted down.

            “I have prepared a statement to address the rumours about me and Ian.” Mickey swallowed hard. “As you can see in the picture, we’re kissing under mistletoe. It is a well-known tradition that any two people under mistletoe must kiss. That’s what this kiss was. Two friends following a tradition.”

            He tasted bile in his mouth. “Ian has been out since we first worked together in _Boy Babysitters_ almost ten years ago. I have remained his friend and colleague ever since. The night of this kiss, we were drunk and walking home and I caught sight of some mistletoe above us when we stumbled into a wall. I thought it might be...” Mickey trailed off. He tried to force the word _funny_ from his throat but he couldn’t.

            He took a long moment, too long. The press started to chatter, to shout questions, to take pictures. Mickey stared unseeing at the statement in front of him, swallowed the bad taste in his mouth. He held up a hand for silence and slowly the noise died down.

            “I’m sorry,” Mickey said. “I’m sorry. This statement was written for me by my publicist. I gave her the idea for it after Ian told me that it would be the perfect excuse for my actions. But it’s not true.”

            He stared out at the reporters, waiting for them to work themselves into a frenzy, but they stayed quiet. Something like hope burst warm and fuzzy in his chest. “I kissed Ian that night because I’ve spent the last ten years, maybe longer, trying not to kiss him. I kissed Ian Gallagher because I’m in love with him and I always have been.”

            Mickey bit his lip. “I’m gay.”

            That was when the press exploded. Reporters jumped from their seats to get closer to the stage, questions were shouted at him, and the cameras exploded. Mickey tried to blink past the flashes but he couldn’t see a thing.

            The next thing he knew, Liz had grabbed him and security was ushering the two of them back towards the elevator. The doors closed on them and Liz pulled the emergency stop. “Well. That went terribly.”

            Mickey laughed. He couldn’t stop laughing.

            “This isn’t funny. You have no idea the mess you just made.”

            “Isn’t that your job though?” Mickey said. “To clean up my messes?”

            Liz shook her head. “I don’t know what you want me to do about that, Mick.”

            “Nothing,” Mickey said honestly. “I want you to do absolutely nothing.”


	20. Chapter 20

Ian watched the press conference live from a diner about a block away from the studio. He watched Mickey pause in the middle of the speech, silently begged him to get back on track, and then felt his own jaw drop as Mickey told the truth. As Mickey came out on national television. The one thing that Mickey had said he didn’t want to do.

            Ian ran from the diner all the way back to the studio, paced outside the front doors waiting for Mickey to come back. The moment his car stopped outside, Ian raced for the door, almost colliding with Mickey as he got out. Ian grabbed his boyfriend’s face, breathless, and said, “Say you didn’t do that for me. I don’t... you can’t do shit like that for me.”

            Mickey kissed him until he couldn’t breathe. With a smile, Mickey said, “I did it for me.”

            The next few days were a disaster. Shooting on the set stopped. Ian and Mickey were forced to have meeting after meeting after meeting with the producers who shifted tactics every day. Sometimes they yelled. Sometimes they cajoled. Other times they would just stare in stony silence. More often than not, Mickey laughed in their faces.

            The press exploded. The pictures from the club resurfaced and painted every tabloid magazine. Svetlana came out in their favour, saying her relationship with Mickey had been a sham from the start and she had been happy to protect them. Ian and Mickey camped out in a new hotel room every night, running from the press camps outside the front door while simultaneously earning many private moments for themselves.

            Eventually, the movie was cancelled. The studio decided they simply couldn’t make a children’s movie with two gay leads and ignored protests from gay rights groups calling them homophobic. Neither Ian nor Mickey cared much. They still got paid. They didn’t have to spend more time with producers yelling at them. And, when the director started coming out with set stories, no one really seemed to care.

            Things died down soon enough. With celebrities, there was always another scandal around the corner. Mickey moved back into his apartment and Ian slowly started to move in with him. Mandy called every day to check in with them, to tell them about her life on Broadway – having a gay brother on Broadway really helped, apparently – and to wish them well. She was by far their most vocal supporter in the press, always mentioning how happy Mickey was and how much she loved her brother and how proud she was of him. Ian thought Mickey might have been annoyed by it if she hadn’t sounded so genuine.

            Then the inevitable hit. Mickey opened a package of scripts to find sitcom after sitcom. A couple of rom-coms were mixed in. Most of the roles were straight but a few that had Mickey as a gay man were there too. Ian sat by while Mickey flipped through them, his face a mask but his hands shaking. Ian made tea. He asked Mickey to read them aloud. They laughed at some of the better dialogue and tried to find the bright side.

            Ian signed with Mickey’s agent and ended up taking a lot of the roles Mickey passed on. He liked working on sitcoms. He liked playing a gay man when he could and helping out when it came to representation. Whenever he had to kiss another guy on set, he came home and peppered Mickey with kisses, begging him to pay attention to him, to get the taste of some other guy off his lips. This made Mickey laugh so much that Ian thought, no matter what, he’d never stop.

            As Ian’s star rose, Mickey faded into obscurity. He stopped taking roles all together, told his agent not to send him any parts that weren’t in action movies or serious dramas. He still did commercials and print ads for a while but without him starring in blockbusters, the demand for him faded. Ian watched him as things changed, worried he might slip into old habits or fall into a depression. But Mickey was Mickey. And, even as his career disappeared before his eyes, the product of his own stubbornness, Ian swore that Mickey was happier than he’d ever seen him.

            A year after Mickey had first come out, Ian got invited to the Oscars for his role in a critically acclaimed film. He held the invitation in his hand for a long while, staring at the gold writing and running his fingers over his name.

            “What’s that?” Mickey asked. He rested his chin on Ian’s shoulder and landed a kiss on his neck. “Is that for the fucking Oscars?”

            “Yeah.” Ian knew he should sound more excited. “Whatever.”

            “Whatever?” Mickey echoed. He scoffed and took the invitation from Ian. “We’re going.”

            “We’re not going.”

            Mickey gave him a look. “Hollywood’s biggest star not going to the Oscars? Why? Because he’s afraid it might upset his has-been boyfriend?”

            Ian laughed. “That makes you sound really fucking old.”

            Mickey smiled but didn’t reply. He had his phone out and a few moments later said, “Yes, hi, I’m calling on behalf of Ian Gallagher? He would like to accept his invitation to the Oscars and tell you that he’s bringing his fiancé. Yes, that’s right. Thank you.” He hung up.

            Ian raised an eyebrow. “Fiancé?”

            Mickey shrugged. “I found the ring a few days ago.”

            “And you’re saying yes?”

            “Yes.” Mickey kissed him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

           

Ian took a deep breath as the limo rolled up to the red carpet. Mickey’s fingers tangled in his and he squeezed tight. “You ready?” he asked, not sure if the question was meant for Mickey or himself.

            “Ready as ever.”

            Ian opened the door and stepped out. He raised one hand to wave and kept the other firmly in Mickey’s grip. Mickey stepped out after him, smiling and waving. Before the limo even drove away, Mickey leaned in and pressed a kiss to Ian’s cheek. Ian blushed hard, for a moment forgetting that the whole world knew about them, that they were essentially one of the most famous couples on the planet. He turned and planted a kiss on Mickey’s lips.

            The crowd went wild.

            As they walked down the red carpet, Ian never let go of Mickey. Whether their hands were clasped together or Mickey had an arm around him, they were always touching. They laughed through interviews together. Ian pulled Mickey away from reporters who asked about his non-existent career before he could punch their lights out. In one interview, before Ian could stop him, Mickey said with a completely straight face, “Ian’s my sugar daddy.” The reporter had stopped talking really fast after that.

            They got inside with minimal incidents. They greeted other people they knew from this or that project and settled in their seats without much fuss. A few minutes before the show started, a man in front of them turned around and said, “Mickey Milkovich, right?”

            Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Who wants to know?”

            The man offered his hand. “I’m Kevin Truman. I just picked up a script today that I think you’ll be perfect for.”

            Ian felt Mickey tense beside him. “What’s it about?” Mickey asked, polite enough.

            “It’s an action movie about a man whose dealings with a local gang have gotten out of hand so they kidnapped his son not knowing this man was an ex-CIA operative.”

            Ian looked over at Mickey whose expression hadn’t changed at all. Ian felt his heart jump into his throat. Here was someone willing to offer Mickey everything he’d lost by coming out. He squeezed Mickey’s hand tight.

            Mickey smiled. “That sounds like a great opportunity and I wish you a lot of luck with the project, but I’m not Mickey Milkovich, action star, anymore.”

            “I don’t care that you’re gay,” Kevin said.

            If anything, Mickey’s smile widened. “Mr. Truman, I’ve been an actor for most of my life. I gave my childhood to this profession and all it did was mess me up so badly that I almost gave up the man I love to keep my reputation. I’m sorry, but I’ve never wanted to be an actor, and now that I’m out... I could never go back in.”

            Kevin nodded. “Good for you,” he said and then turned back around.

            Ian leaned in and kissed Mickey hard.

            “What was that for?” Mickey said.

            Ian shrugged. “I just love you a lot.”

            “I love you too.”

            Ian didn’t win that night but he didn’t care. After so long, after screwing up his life past the point he thought he could get back from, he was happy and healthy and more in love than he had thought possible. He had the world at his feet and intended to start walking.


End file.
